


Fate RWBY

by DinasEmrys



Series: Fate RWBY [1]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, RWBY
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Lesbian Character, Magic-Users, Multi, Multiple Endings, Mythological & Historical Heroes, Mythology & Folklore, Past Lives, Tragic Romance, happy romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinasEmrys/pseuds/DinasEmrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p>When Vale becomes the setting for an age-old ritual, Weiss enters the Holy Grail War as the only heir to the Schnee family. But when her classmate Blake Belladonna is injured in a fight with Assassin, Weiss finds herself faced with a choice: pursue the Grail, or find some way to keep her friends alive.</p><p>Features several ships and pairings, along with eventually multiple endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The RWBY and Fate franchises are the products of their respective companies.

It was just barely morning, the sky still holding onto its last hints of red. Dawn had gone, and light sparkled warmly through the early autumn air, dappling the ground as it leaked through leaves and branches. Birds chirped their morning songs, filling the air with their quiet joy, crying out their small struggles and triumphs for all the world to hear. But apart from the birds, and the soft cold wind that made leaves dance slowly above her head, the town was completely, utterly still.

Weiss Schnee glanced around as she continued her walk towards the school. She was surprised – the sidewalks should be covered with students making their daily trek to the senior high, the boys in their brown jackets, the girls in their dark skirts. Instead, the road was empty. No cars rolled by, no bikes carrying middle or high-schoolers whipped around the corners. All she heard was the sound of her shoes clicking softy on the pavement.

It was an unsettling quiet, the kind that always came right before some moron popped his head out from behind a wall and shouted 'boo!' Or the type that settled down like a fog, blanketing the world in preparation for the storm about to hit.

Not that there was anything she could do about it.

Sighing, Weiss walked across the courtyard of the school, turning as a scrap of movement caught her eyes. Another student was there, bent before one of the vending machines, canned coffee promoted by an American movie star held in her hand. Her white-and-blue archery uniform shifted as she stood,

Looking up, her eyes met Weiss', and the Australian exchange student grinned. "Hey, Schnee! You're up early today."

"Good morning Velvet. Where is everyone?" Weiss asked, suppressing a yawn before grabbing a coffee for herself. She was still feeling the effects of last night, twilight hours spent pouring over her spellbooks until her eyes ached. Grimacing. Weiss downed half of the brown sludge in a single gulp, swallowing despite the taste. "It can't be that early."

"Are you kidding? It's just before seven."

Looking up from her drink, Weiss scowled up at the clock, several choice words flashing through her head. No wonder she was tired. An hour's less sleep after already being up until two in the morning. Or was it one, if all her clocks were off?

"Looks like I got the time wrong."

Velvet finished her drink and smiled apologetically. An hour's difference wouldn't mean much to the rabbit Faunus, especially since she already woke early for her morning club meeting. "Well, since you're here, wanna come watch practice? We lost one of our best archers before summer. Have to put on a good show to get newbies to come in."

"The work of the team captain is never done, huh?" the heiress drawled, rubbing between her eyes. Just being around the perky girl was starting to wear her out. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I should double-check the lit reading."

Velvet shrugged, the protective plate on her archery uniform bobbing with her shoulders. "Suit yourself. Have a good one."

Waving goodbye, Weiss headed for the shoe racks, her mind already pouring over the sigils and incantations she would need for that night's ritual. She could recite the incantations backwards, but it wasn't just a matter of making sure she got her pronunciation right. The summoning clause was stable, but without reinforcing the containment phrase, the necessary claudication could-

"Hey, Snow Angel! Must be my lucky day running into you first thing."

Weiss jerked to a halt, her teeth already grinding before she turned to look at the boy standing behind her. "Good morning, Arc," she said through her teeth, the veneer of forced politeness already wearing on her nerves. That and the lack of sleep ... and her stress over the upcoming ritual. And her general distaste for the blonde grinning back at her.

Actually, it might be easier to list the things that  _weren't_ getting on her nerves. None of which registered with Jaune Arc, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, even this early in the god-forsaken morning.

"Well, see you," she waved and went inside. She had better things to do than deal with his constant attempts to ask her out.

"Hey, since you're here this early, why not come watch morning practice?

Ignoring the image of her rounding on him like a snarling tiger, Weiss took a breath. Technically, there wasn't anything particularly irritating about the offer. Velvet had said the same thing, and that didn't make her reconsider her ethical stance on homicide. It  _was_  possible that he was just trying to be friendly. Unlikely, but possible. Better save any head-biting for when it was truly deserved.

"Thank you, Arc, but frankly I'm not all that interested in archery."

"Oh? I thought that's why you kept showing up to our after-school practices." The blond boy took a step in, trying to get her to meet his eyes and almost blocking her way into the building. "Or were you, uh ... there for something else?"

Weiss heard her teeth grinding and forced her jaw to loosen. Her dentist had a point – much more of this and her teeth would be filed down to nubs. At least Jaune had the grace to look hopeful, rather than simply assuming she'd been there to see him.

"Anyway, I was wondering, if you aren't too busy tomorrow night-"

There it was. For the second time this week, no less. Apparently sidestepping and politely declining his previous advances hadn't managed to sink into that thick skull of his. Well ... maybe 'politely' wasn't the right word. Still, she hadn't just unloaded both barrels on him out of nowhere.

 _Then again, that might actually be what makes him back off,_ she thought, trying to keep ahold of her temper. It was far too early for this.  _Fine. Blunt and harsh it is_.

"Arc, do us both a favor and stay away from me, alright?" Moving forward, she neatly sidestepped past him, and slipped out of her shoes. The less attention she paid him, the better.

"To be clear: not only am I uninterested in archery, I am not interested in  _you_. Rather than constantly bothering me, you would be better off spending your time doing literally anything else. In fact, last week was the first time that I even noticed you were in the archery range." It was a bold faced lie, she wasn't that oblivious even in the worst thralls of her tunnel vision, but it wasn't as if she had gone there to see  _him_.

 _Plus_ , she thought,  _a good blow to his ego might be enough to make him leave me alone. Time for the coup de gr_ _â_ _ce._

She made sure to smile her frostiest as she glanced back at the blond. "Should I decide to visit again, I'm quite sure I can avoid noticing you in the future."

Ignoring the boy's stunned bluster, and taking only the barest pleasure at his utterly dumbfounded expression, Weiss placed her outdoor shoes in the locker, slipped into her indoor ones, and headed up the stairs.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without incident, lessons and classes crawling by, tossing off-hand answers to intrusive and increasingly obvious questions on literary allusions and logarithmic expressions, before her mind settled back to the task at hand. New notes and scraps of spell diagrams joined the others in the margins of her notebooks, endless variations on the summoning circle her father had designed. There were a thousand different variables to consider, the simple physics of ripping a hole in local space infinitely more difficult than-

Weiss blinked, and realized she'd forgotten what class she was in. Looking up, she peered owlishly at the board before going back to her figures.

Yup. It was infinitely more difficult than comprehending the gold standard.

It had to be just right,  _everything_ had to be just right, or the Servant she summoned wouldn't have the power she needed. She couldn't risk ending up with some third-rate spirit answering her call. Or risk the possibility of turning all matter within a ten-foot radius inside-out. Not that that was a likely result, but if she didn't fix this clause ...

It was well into the evening by the time Weiss finished her preparations, the summoning sigil drawn on the stone floor of her father's workshop.  _My workshop_ , she corrected herself, and threw one last look at the temporospatial coordinates for the transport claudication. Her father's structure would work – she had a sneaking suspicion that he might actually rise from the grave if it didn't – but the details of the summoning were hers to deal with. It wouldn't do to miscalculate and accidentally drop her Servant into the middle of the city. Or onto a moving train, or a passing airplane, or ... well, pretty much anywhere other than the safety of her family's manor.

Satisfied that each and every line of runes was correct, she finished the last symbol of her glyph, knotting the entire work together and watching it glint slightly on the stone floor. Carefully, she set the various components in their designated rings, jewels filled with mana and ready to boost the power of the ritual, a few drops of her own blood to bind the magic to her. Her preparations finished, she rose, filled her lungs with air, and Spoke.

It always amazed her, the way magic had a sound. She'd been practicing the Art her entire life, since before she could walk, and yet every time she raised her voice to say the words, it managed to amaze her. That feeling, as if an old friend quieted just to listen to you speak. Hearing as the quiet grew quieter, as noise turned to silence, shadows blurring and leaning in to listen. She was aware of the cool stone floor, of the warm candles in their holder behind her, of the bead of sweat running down her neck, and yet ... There was always the feeling of looking down on it all from above. As she was involved in the act, yet separate, aware in ways she could never be outside the Art. The whole world closed around her, simply to listen, to bend to her will. As if everything was waiting, silently waiting, to see what she could do.

Power surged in her bones and she spoke, long white hair whipping about her as she said the words that would define her pact.

Words flowed from her, sentences archaic and dusty in their construction, passed down through the centuries as a core of the ritual. The components dripped from her hand, dropping onto the sigil once, twice, five times, each drop making the light of her runes brighter and stronger. She was well and truly bound to the magic now; it was less that she said the spell than the magic flowed through her, her body a mere conduit for its creation.

_Head my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny. If you heed the grail's call and obey my will and reason, answer me!_

Grandiose promises ushered from her lips, oaths made to banish the darkness, to combat evil, to lay aside fear for strength and courage. They were ridiculous, even foolish, and at any other time, she would have found herself laughing at the bald idealism. But they were the core of the spell, and what would magecraft be without idealism and grandeur, anyway?

With each word, power built within her, building into a crescendo as she said the last words of her spell, asking, compelling, demanding her Servant's presence. The magic rushed from her, blasting out across the room, leaving the open pages of her tomes rustling in its wake. Candles died, leaving the room in darkness as the light faded from her glyph. Well-known fatigue washed over her, leaving her drained as the magic took that strength and used it to enact her will. But the energy loss was second nature by now, and all the white-haired girl had eyes for was the three marks now etched on the back of her hand, red spirals marking her as a combatant,  _a Master_ , in the Holy Grail War.

And yet, everything was still. Nothing happened. The command seals had materialized – she  _was_  a Master – but there was no Servant, no hero to serve as her soldier in the Holy Grail War, no knight in shining armor stepping forth from a shimmering portal to swear allegiance.

A crash echoed through the house, shaking the walls even down in the basement. With a curse, Weiss scampered up the stairs, her skirt swirling about her legs. Grabbing onto the doorknob, she turned, slamming into the wood as it refused to budge. Elbowing it open, she burst out into the lounge ... and her eyes went wide,

The room –  _her father's_  sitting room – was completely destroyed. Dust and debris were  _everywhere,_  settling on the now-cracked mantle, coating her books. Well, what remained of her books, at least. Louis XIV furniture lay shattered about the room, the dining set her father had so painstakingly arranged now barely suitable for kindling. Wooden splinters and shredded curtains covered the floor, draping across the shattered settee and clumps of padding from the now-torn cushions. Shrapnel lay embedded in the wall,

There, in the eye of the destruction, was a woman, sitting on the remains of Weiss' favorite couch. The one she used to sit on while her mother did her hair. The one she still slept on occasionally, when exhaustion finally claimed her after nights spent in her workshop. Her wrecked, ruined, upturned couch.

Her hair was long, longer even than Weiss', and of a crimson shade darker than the darkest blood. A white mask lay over her tanned face, decorated with sharp lines sweeping down along its jagged sides, shielding her eyes from view. The white metal stopped just above her mouth, the sides shooting down on either side of her lips like two monstrous fangs, but leaving her frown visible for all to see. The masked helm curved back over her head, ragged spires shielding her skull. Muscle rippled in her arms, visible even through the black and scarlet coat she wore, her bared midriff a shredded sculpture of strength. She looked like danger incarnate, a wild predator in the form of a woman, the spirit of a warrior through and through.

A Servant.  _Her_  Servant.

In one slow, smooth motion, the head turned towards Weiss, red-black hair streaming behind it. The eye sockets of the mask stared at her, through her, cold and emotionless as the unending void. The Schnee heiress stared back in silence, before her gaze slid to the side, eager to escape that dark, impassive stare, and crept over to the cracked case of the clock on the wall.

It read two in the morning.

 _Dammit._ She'd forgotten the clocks were still running an hour fast.

Weiss sighed. This was her fault. You could name all the names you chose, use every word of power in existence, expend all the components you could muster, and still your summoning would malfunction if you gave the wrong temporal coordinates. Honestly, she was lucky it had worked at all ... or that the Servant's disastrous arrival hadn't outright ripped through her local spacetime and killed her instantly. It was a rookie mistake, something her father would have been only too quick to point out. He'd have been right, too. She was lucky to have survived.

"What exactly are you supposed to be?" she asked, her normally-short temper already ground down to a nub of a fuse.

"Shouldn't that be obvious?" the woman growled, her mask cocking to one side. "You called for a warrior to win you the Grail. I answered."

"... so you're the Servant I summoned?"

"I am no one's  _servant_ ," the woman spat. "But, I will be your soldier. Your ... Archer."

Swift and sudden, the spirit rose to her feet, towering above the young woman before her. Weiss was used to being shorter than the people around her, but this women was nearing the bases to six feet, and her neck ached as it craned up to look at her. Fluid and relaxed, wasting no movement or energy, the woman inclined her head and bent down just enough to place the two on equal level. Black sockets gazed into Weiss' eyes, the darkness blank and unreadable. Weiss glared right back, her spine ramrod-straight, and refused to look away. She was a mage, and more than that, she was a Schnee. She was the heir, and a Schnee never showed weakness. Not in front of someone like this, a spirt so far beyond the pinnacle of human achievement that their existence had turned to legend. No matter what that legend might be.

She'd be safer exposing her neck to a rabid tiger.

Apparently satisfied with her reaction, the white mask angled down in a short polite bow before the woman relaxed back onto her throne of wreckage, one leg casually crossed over her knee.

"Now then, what is your will, my lady?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief explanation on how this will work: the main thing being borrowed here is the format of the Grail War, and a few of the general character roles. I know this prologue was fairly close to the series opening, but it will diverge fairly sharply from here. Some characters from Fate will be completely replaced, and a few others will have their roles filled slightly differently by others.
> 
> For example, Weiss is mostly taking the role played by Tohsaka, and Raven is stepping in as Archer. Which means the next chapter will have a particularly fun fight scene between herself and Assassin (really looking forward to writing Raven's fighting style). For one of the more obvious ones, Pyrrha is taking the Rider spot, and I'll give you three guesses which heroic spirit she'll be.


	2. First Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss deals with her first opponent, and Blake has a rather nasty run-in with an enemy Servant.

"Shit!"

Weiss dived to the side, feeling the sword whip past her back long before the sound of steel slicing through air hit her ears. Catching herself on the flat of her arms, she rolled to her feet, putting as much distance between herself and her attacker as she could. Spinning, she turned to find the off-kilter figure slowly making its way towards her, the tip of their blade scratching deep grooves into the pavement.

Grimacing, Weiss backed a little further away, eyes scanning the darkness around her for any sign of passersby. She'd hoped to get further – ideally into the forest that ringed the town – but apparently, the enemy Servant hadn't been willing to wait any longer.

Not that it hadn't already shown plenty of patience. That entire day, Weiss had felt eyes on her, that inevitable prickling sensation on the back of her neck when you  _know_  someone is watching. But no matter how often she looked, or how many times she ordered Archer to double-check the school's perimeter, who or whatever was spying on her might as well have a ghost.

 _Not a ghost_ , she thought angrily, taking another step back as the menacing figure drew nearer.  _A Servant._

The damn thing had kept her on edge all day, looking over her shoulder, expecting an attack. Which was probably exactly what it wanted – to wear her out while it waited in relative comfort. It had worked too. She'd stayed until she had no choice but to leave the relative safety of the crowded school, well after all the other students had gone. The last thing she needed was someone else getting wrapped up in all this. Fortunately, it looked like the area was already deserted this late at night, the brick street cold and lonely, bordered by a dilapidated church long since abandoned by whatever congregation had once gathered there. Streetlamps of blackened iron dotted the path, leaving little puddles of warm light on the ground.

The attacker stepped into one of those yellow-orange pools, and Weiss was shocked to find herself looking at a tiny little woman, half her hair a brilliant pink, the other a deep, chocolate brown. Mismatched eyes lay beneath her different-colored bangs, her gaze wide and unsettling. Head cocked to one side, she stared at Weiss, her sword swinging loosely by her side, the sound of her tip gouging along the ground harsh and painful in her ears.

In a flash, the woman darted forward, giving Weiss barely enough time to say the last syllable of a spell she'd taken to leaving on standby. The thin blade stabbed out towards her neck, deflected neatly aside by the shield spell. The little force bubble shook, then held against the attack, but Weiss wasn't ready for the roundhouse kick the woman delivered into her side, beating the wind from her lungs and tossing her like a ragdoll back down the path. Her shoulder slammed heavily into the bricks, inertia carrying her several feet along the ground, bouncing and rolling until she slammed into the walled side of the path.

Adrenaline and panic working through the pain, Weiss pushed herself onto her hands and knees, raising her head just in time to see the odd-eyed woman smile, before driving the blade down towards her throat.

The blow never hit. In a blink of an eye, Archer was there, the blade parried aside with the bracers than ran down one arm. The dark-haired woman started forward, and Weiss' pursuer leapt back, flipping off the ground before coming down to land on the balls of her feet, a smirk crossing her lips.

Weiss managed to stand, leaning against one of the lampposts for support.  _Everything_  hurt. Numbness was slowly ebbing from her arm, replaced by a burning ache in her shoulder. The limb felt like it was on fire, and she had no doubt that the bruises from her fall would purple by morning.

"Archer, she's-"

"I know," the woman cut her off, right hand loose by her side as she stepped towards the attacker. "That agility, attacking without warning – there's really only one possible candidate."

A blade appeared on her left hip, wrapped in a massive sheath as thick as Weiss' leg, its color as black as night. It almost seemed more cylinder than sheath, short lines of color flashing from within its confines. Gripping the case with her left hand, Archer wrapped her right around the hilt. The chamber of the sheath spun, colors flicking rapidly, coming to a stop as Archer squeezed the grip of her sword. With one slow pull, she drew her weapon forwards, left hand sliding the sheath back along her hip, the blood-red blade glinting in the moonlight. It was long, four feet at least, curved with a single edge, and wickedly sharp. With a flick of her wrist, the blade flipped forward, the tip coming to a halt, pointed right at the shorter Servant's chest.

"Assassin," Archer hissed through her teeth.

The pink and brown-haired woman inclined her head, one foot ducking behind the other as she curtseyed, the tip of her thin sword making lazy loops in the air.

Archer released her sheath, letting it hang from the swordbelt at her side, and wrapped her left hand around the base of her hilt. The point of the blade now solidly between the two, the raven-haired woman settled into her guard, feet shifting as she fixed her stance. The two stood still and silent for a moment, neither making the first move, both watching and waiting, judging each little movement their opponent made.

Without warning, Archer vanished, air rushing in with a bang into the space she had once occupied. Assassin's eyes went wide, her blade rising just in time to parry the crimson sword as Archer appeared beside her. Even blocked, the blood-red blade threw the shorter fighter back, feet skidding on the brick path as she slid to a halt. Archer didn't pause, stepping from cut to cut, driving her opponent back with every swing of her sword. Assassin spun away from the blows, lashing out with blade and feet, taking any opportunity to strike at the taller woman.

The thinner blade snuck out as Assassin ducked another swing, spearing straight through Archer's chest – only for the servant to vanish into thin air. Distracted by the afterimage, Assassin nearly missed the sword cleave down towards her pale, unprotected neck. She got her blade up in time, but the sheer force from Archer's swing slammed her into the ground, knees collapsing as the earth struggled and crumbled beneath her. Assassin resisted, held, and whirled away, the dust clearing to reveal a crater in the ground where she had stood. Archer's blade hadn't even touched the pavement, hovering over the shattered ground at exactly the height of Assassin's head.

Weiss watched as the two women dueled, clashing blades resounding through the autumn air. Her eyes flickered from thin steel to deep red curves, desperately trying to keep up with the speed of their attacks. Assassin was done playing, the pink-and-brown haired woman darting across the field, swinging like a madwoman, a blur of cuts and kicking feet. Archer remained impassive behind her mask, each blow parried with the flat of her blade, the hilt, or her bracers. The taller woman gave as good as she got, precise, powerful strokes cleaving the air while Assassin just barely bent out of the way. The blood-red blade always remained between the two, a slashing arc of death that kept Assassin at a distance, no motion wasted between her swings.

Finally, Assassin went for the sword itself, one kick crashing right into the side of the blade, the force of her attack shattering the crimson steel. Bloodlust glinting in her mismatched eyes, Assassin grinned her silent snarl, and struck.

"Archer!" Weiss cried, the last syllable for her shield already on her lips.

Blindingly fast, Archer slammed the hilt of her broken sword back into its sheath. In one smooth motion, she drew, her hand a line of light as it whipped out towards the enemy, a brand-new blade extending out from her scabbard. Weiss watched as Archer's wrist flicked forward, the long arc of her sword scything towards her opponent, index finger wrapped around what looked conspicuously like a trigger.

The clack of a rifle split the air, and the new-made blade shot forward, striking deep into Assassin's shoulder, blood dripping from the wound as the girl staggered back. The projectile blade held for a moment, then shattered, leaving only the bloodstains on the shorter woman's white jacket and a blade-shaped hole.

"Be honest, you were wondering why I counted as an Archer." The ghost of a smile flickered across her mouth as Archer raised the bladeless hilt, finger still on the trigger, and looked at Weiss with what the girl could have sworn was humor.

"It's also a gun."

Dirt shuffled beneath Assassin's feet, and both Weiss and Archer turned back to look at the injured Servant. Gone was the playfulness she'd shown in her attacks, as was the grin and the sadistic glint in the woman's eyes.

Weiss felt the pressure build in the air, shadows peeling from the ground, whipping about the thin sword in Assassin's hands. The streetlamps flickered, fought, and died, the sword leeching the very light from the field on which they stood. The silent woman drew back her blade until it sat in line with her mismatched eyes, her off-hand finally joining the other around the hilt of the demonic weapon.

Weiss swallowed. For a Servant to use their noble phantasm this early in the war ... well, she hadn't been expecting things to escalate this quickly. Assassin's sword gleamed with unholy shadow – rather, it drew in the light and devoured it, leaving the Servant a mere shade, hair made of darkness whipping about her shoulders. Archer's hilt had already returned to its sheath, the raven-haired woman's body still and relaxed, simply waiting for the chance to draw, to fire into that maelstrom of shadow.

Something moved, and both Servants snapped their eyes towards the source of the noise. Back behind the dilapidated church wall, past crumbling siding and rotting drywall, stood a hooded figure staring at the wreckage left by their battle. Staring at the broken lamppost cleaved in half by one of Archer's swings, the cracked bricks scattered around the path, at Weiss' and Assassin's blood dying the brick a deeper shade of red.

Panic rushed through Weiss. The Mage's Association was very clear about its policies concerning exposure to the 'normal' world. While she might be willing the take the risk, or at least go out of her way to keep anyone from noticing, most mages weren't as careful. Most weren't particularly concerned if one or two people 'disappeared' after seeing something they shouldn't. If Assassin's master decided that eliminating a witness was easier than covering it up ...

It seemed she was right. Assassin vanished, the Servant a multi-colored blur darting at the person in the hood, running low to the ground, her blade extended out to her side.

For a split second, Weiss considered just letting Assassin go. It would solve their immediate problems, at least. She and Archer could take the opportunity to retreat, to lick her wounds. They could regroup, get into a better position, somewhere more fortified. It was the easy way out.

_... why can I never just take the easy way out?_

Her arm was extended before she made up her mind, her palm pointed directly at the running spectre. A single word issued from her lips, launching the pre-assembled spell from her fingertips, globule of light hurtling across the field and slamming into Assassin's back.

The Servant staggered, more distracted by the attack than anything else, but that was all she needed. Archer was already rushing after her, blood-red blade whipping through the air as she hacked at the enemy Servant.

Weiss spared the onlooker a glance, at the hood over their face, their featureless black coat hiding any signs of gender or body shape.

"Go!" she cried, barely willing to waste even that much breath as she staggered towards the dueling Servants.

The hooded shadow didn't need to be told twice, scrabbling at the ground and bolting around the corner.

* * *

The girl beneath the hood panted for breath as she ran, legs burning as they pumped, propelling her down the street and into the relative safety of civilization. She rounded corner after corner, robotically performing the surveillance countermeasures that Adam had drilled into her bones, dodging between buildings, darting into darkened alleys, watching car mirrors and storefronts for any reflection of her pursuer. She did what she could to change her silhouette, hoping the minor shifts in body shape might be enough to lose them. The hood came down, the double-sided coat flipped from black canvas to deep blue, and the girl darted into the hollow of a doorway to catch her breath.

Heart pounding, she listened for footsteps, for further signs of battle, the sound of clashing blades. Nothing hit her ears, and she sighed, reaching up to fix the bow atop her head. Satisfied that she looked like any other young lady walking home, she stepped back out into the street, calmly but quickly doubling back towards her house and cursing her own foolishness all the way.

She'd left the summoning too late. Much too late. Granted, she'd hoped to muster more power for the ritual, planning to try for a more powerful servant if she just waited a little longer.

Apparently, it had nearly been too late, but for the white-haired mage deciding that the life of a random bystander was worth risking exposure.

The Mage's Association would not be happy about that. Well, if Blake _actually_ was some unknowing bystander. At least she'd managed to gather  _some_  intel on the other masters, even if it had nearly gotten her killed. It seemed the Schnee girl had already summoned her Servant, an Archer who fancied itself a swordswoman. Then again, the red-and-black clad Servant had easily given Assassin a run for its money, so perhaps ...

Lost in thought, it wasn't long before the low roof of her house rose up before her, well on the outskirts of town, high-walled and out of sight. Her arm moving automatically, Blake pressed her key into the lock, as she had a hundred times before, and froze.

The hackles on the back of her neck stood on end, and Blake dived forward through the now-open door, just barely dodging the razor-thin blade slicing down at her. She rolled to her feet, the handgun that normally hid against the small of her back already pointed at her attacker's head. Not that it would do her any good. Magically-reinforced bullets might be enough to take down an unguarded mage, or even a summoned familiar, but a hero called from the age of legends, strengthened for the conflict over the Holy Grail? She might as well use a squirt gun for all the good it would do.

The swordswoman advanced silently towards her, head cocking to the side as she twirled her blade. The moonlight lit her face, just for a second, and Blake found herself staring into different-colored eyes. The left was a milky gray, the other a disturbing shade of bright bubblegum pink, matching half of her two-tone hair. Even her grin was lop-sided, one side of her mouth curled up in a vicious smirk that oozed sadistic pleasure.

It was fight or flight, and Blake had a feeling this was a fight she couldn't win. Taking the second option, she bolted for the hallway, firing behind her as she ran. Anything that might slow the Assassin down.

Something caught her side, but Blake grit her teeth against the pain and kept on running. It happened again, and again, sharp lines of agony that left shallow gouges and bloodstains in their wake. None of the cuts were fatal, and from the too-white grin that Blake saw glinting over her shoulder, she guessed that Assassin wasn't missing.

 _She's toying with me_ , the Faunus realized, managing to duck one of the psychopath's swings as she juked around a corner. Putting on her last burst of speed, Blake bolted for the study, ignoring the sheathed blade mounted on the wall, the mask resting atop the desk. She slammed the door shut behind her, the outline of the wooden panel flickering as the protection enchantments activated.

She allowed herself a moment to breathe, listening as the Servant battered against the magically reinforced door. Adam had spent weeks layering enchantments over the room – even Assassin would have trouble simply breaking in.

A long thin blade stabbing through the door made her reconsider, and Blake staggered over to the spell-circle etched meticulously into the hardwood floor. Ignoring the constant pounding and hacking against the wood, Blake ran over the runes one last time, double and triple-checking the script. The ritual was already nearly complete, the sigil gleaming with held-back power, the mana Blake poured into it for weeks flaring even brighter as she knelt atop it.

_Maybe not the brightest idea, but at this point ..._

Smearing her hand along one of the shallow cuts, Blake growled against the pain, and pressed her bloody palm to the sigil. Light blazed around her just as the pink-haired woman broke through the reinforced door, wood splinters scattering into the room as she took the heavy oak apart. Her grey and brown eyes flashed with joy, then went wide as she saw the light of magic surrounding the blood-soaked girl.

The incantation already spoken, Blake slammed her other hand into the magic, gripping the spell structure and giving it everything she could, the ancient shield resting in the center of the diagram now gleaming with light.

_Get out here!_

Light exploded across the room, and the swordswoman darted forward, her blade poised for a killing stroke.

She never got the chance.  _Something_ gold slammed into her from the side, knocking the sadist off her feet and sending her careening through the wall. Slowly, ever so slowly, the light faded away, taking the circle and Blake's dried blood with it, the floor now marked only by the slow drip falling from her clothes.

"Are you alright?"

Blake looked up to find a woman as bright as the sun standing over her, scale mail washed with gold shining beneath her tattered brown cloak. Metal-capped vambraces covered her forearms, the leather straps straining to contain the mass of muscle beneath them, tanned skin hard and gleaming. She was tall – the tallest woman Blake had ever seen – and on her back was the same shield used to summon her, this one no longer dulled and cracked with age. Hair the color of the noonday sun streamed behind her, softly curling and tumbling into lilac eyes.

She was the most beautiful thing Blake had ever seen – and the fact that the Servant's arrival had just saved her life didn't hurt one bit.

"Under attack ... Assassin," she managed, her breath coming in short, painful gasps. Her legs burned from running, the stitch in her side dueling with the slashes to see which could hurt more. Clasping her hand over one of the deeper gashes in her side, she winced, then looked down as it came away bloody.

"Damn," the blonde said, ripping her cloak off in one quick jerk. "You really don't mess around, do you?"

"Don't worry about me, just go-"

"Calm down. When I hit people, they tend to stay down. We got about a minute before she pulls herself out of the rubble." The golden woman worked fast, shredding the tattered cloth into long strips and winding them around the worst of Blake's wounds. "You got a name, gorgeous?"

Blake ignored the blatant flirt, her eyes locked on the human-shaped hole in the wall of her study. "Not really the best time for an introduction."

"Would you prefer fanfare and doves, followed by pledges of undying loyalty? I'd like to know the name of the woman I'm risking my life for."

"... point taken," the Faunus hissed, jaw clenching as the Servant put pressure on the deepest cut. "It's Blake ... you can call me Blake."

"Nice to meet you, Blake. I'm-"

The woman paused, grinning just a little wider, as if at a joke only she knew. Violet eyes flashed with mischief, and were it not for the pain, Blake would have suspected she was dreaming. No one should look that fearless, that  _happy_  while still under attack by a mismatched murderess.

... no mere human should, anyway.

If anything, that grin just got bigger as the woman swept golden locks out of her face and tied the makeshift bandage against Blake's side.

"Well Blake, you can call me Berserker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we now have Blake as Berserker/Yang's master, as well as Assassin/Neo. If you can, please take a second to leave a comment or review – they really help me figure out what people liked/disliked. Also, anyone have any guesses as to who the heroic spirits actually are?


	3. The First Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berserker gets her long-awaited duel with Assassin. Blake encounters an enemy Master.

**The First Battle**

With a gentle tug, Berserker knotted the last bandage over Blake's cuts. Patting the young woman's shoulder, she stood, turning to glance out at the garden through the ruined wall. The Faunus took her outstretched hand, and one tanned and muscled arm yanked her onto her feet. The motion put pressure on her wounds, but none were deep enough to cause more than a throbbing pain.

"So," the blonde grinned, eyes still locked on the petite assassin trying to drag herself out of the rubble. "Do I carry you to safety, or are we in the 'crack skulls and take names' portion of the evening?"

Jaw set, Blake stepped around the desk, one hand gripping the leather-backed chair for support. Careful not to put too much pressure on any of her wounds, she reached up, and took down the sword hanging from the mantle. It was long and straight in its jet-black sheath, broken only by an odd mechanism built into the hilt. Moving the scabbard to her left hand, she turned to meet Berserker's stare, golden eyes narrowed to angry slits.

"I don't particularly like getting stabbed." With a flick of her thumb, she clicked a small latch near the top of the grip, piercing the room with the unmistakable sound of a safety being set to 'off.'

Berserker looked her over, eyes lingering on the cuts decorating her torso and the defined muscles of her arms. An odd look crossed over the blonde's face, and Blake shifted slightly under her stare, standing tall and defiant as she waited for the larger woman's judgment.

With a shake of her head, the Servant smiled ruefully before turning back to the garden. "Should have known. Skulls it is."

Knuckles cracked as Berserker stepped through the Assassin-shaped hole she'd blown in the study wall, lilac eyes staring down at the short figure just now pulling herself free from the wreckage. One white and one brown iris met her own, and the two women stepped forward, gazes locked in mutual hostility. Blake stepped out behind her servant, a dark shadow behind Berserker in her gold-washed mail, her mentor's blade held loosely at her side. Assassin was already free, eyes narrowed with fury at having her kill taken from her, thin blade already swirling with shadow. The blond barely seemed to notice, sliding into a ready stance, balance on the balls of her feet, pulling her shield from her back and settling it on her left arm.

"Don't suppose you feel like talking?"

Assassin said nothing, her head merely kinking slightly to the side. In utter silence, she stared up at Berserker, a vicious, bloodthirsty smile spreading across her lips.

Without warning, Berserker lashed out, her right fist streaking towards Assassin's head. The short woman dodged aside, and the two began to dance around the garden, their feet tearing chunks of dirt and grass from the ground, Assassin's blade leaving deep gouges in the turf. Blake watched in awe at the sheer speed of the two fighters, their arms blurring as they stuck again and again ... not that it did either of them much good. Each punch from the blonde caught empty air, whipping by the short woman as she slid away from the blonde's attacks. Each blow, each swing, was dodged, pushed, or parried aside, Assassin's grin only growing wider at Berserker's obvious annoyance.

Finally, Assassin caught one ill-advised swing and twisted, using the larger woman's weight against her as she rolled and pulled, knocking the blonde off-balance before sweeping her legs out from under her. Too-white teeth flashing in the moonlight, she grinned and sank her blade deep into the golden woman's shoulder.

Heat rolled off the golden servant, driving Assassin back and turning the well-kept grass into short black shards, singed as the servant slipped into the state that gave her class its name. Blake watched, transfixed as purple eyes changed to red, narrowing in almost animal fury at the diminutive figure with the gall to injure her.

With a howl, Berserker flew across the garden, blow after blow slung at her opponent. Most missed, going wide as Assassin used her agility to dodge or twist aside, but the swordswoman wasn't faring much better. Each cut, each kick was knocked aside, either by the shield on Berserker's left or the bracer on her right. The few that connected were merely shrugged aside by the enraged woman, followed by devastating swings with the edge of her shield.

Blake watched in silence, golden eyes flashing between the two spirits as they dueled, Berserker's shield and bracers clashing again and again against the thin blade. What cuts Assassin managed to land didn't even slow Berserker down, but no matter how quickly she swung, Blake's Servant just couldn't manage to hit Assassin. It was an even fight, fury and rage countered with precision and agility. Neither warrior seemed willing to use their phantasms, not yet, not this early in the war, leaving the two in their supernaturally-powered slugging match.

Which left one valid strategy. Cheat.

Without thinking, Blake's hand tensed around her mentor's sword, her fingers tight around the mouth of the  _saya_ , her thumb already on the trigger. She would only get one shot at this, one chance while Assassin was focused on her fight with Berserker. At the moment, their enemy probably only saw Blake as yet another Master, some mage selected by the Holy Grail, another target to be finished off after the annoying blonde who just wouldn't go down.

That would change the second she fired. She had to wait for just the right moment, that perfect, clear shot that ...

 _There_.

Right as Assassin lunged forward, trying to sink her oversized shiv into Berserker, Blake flicked the trigger with her thumb, her pommel aimed right at Assassin's skull.

She fired, the blade flying across the field to slam hilt-first into the Servant's head, catching her off guard and staggering the short woman. Blake ran forward, catching the blade as it rebounded to her, mouth open to order Berserker to attack ... and realized she needn't have bothered. Even consumed by rage, the blonde knew an opening when she saw one. One gauntleted hand slammed into Assassin's chest, the force of the blow slamming her opponent into the ground. Ribs cracked as the diminutive figure landed, the wind rushing out of her in a breathless cry as she slammed into the dirt.

Berserker didn't wait for her to recover. One hand wrapped around the smaller woman's leg and whipped her into the air, slamming Assassin once more into the ground before flinging her like a ragdoll against the opposite wall. She landed with a sickening thunk, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

For a second, Blake dared to hope that it was over. That Berserker had wounded Assassin enough to keep her down, long enough to destroy the head and take the Servant out of the fight for good. Then the pink and brown-haired woman stirred, one hand clawing at the dirt until she pushed herself up onto her knees.

With undisguised fury, Assassin grabbed her arm and pulled, yanking it back into alignment. Forcing herself to her feet, she glowered at the pair, her injuries doing little more than slowing her down. Radiating pure, distilled hate, the small figure took a one, unsteady step forward and shifted her grip on her sword.

Blake blinked as she felt the air  _shift_  around them, Assassin's mana pulsing like a festering wound as moon-lit shadows crawled towards her blade. The few lights in the house promptly flickered and died, the pressure in the air building as if to herald an oncoming storm. Grimacing from her injuries, the silent woman drew back her blade until the hilt lay in line with her mismatched eyes, tip pointed forward, her shaking off-hand finally joining the other around the hilt of the demonic weapon.

The stance's name,  _te ura gasumi_ , came unbidden to Blake's mind, the term seared into her brain after hours upon hours of drills with Adam. Then again, from her footwork and her weapon, she doubted Assassin had ever seen – much less used – the kind of weapon that stance was meant for.

 _Ochs then, or Einhorn,_  she decided, settling into her own stance, both blade and sheath waiting in her grip. Beside her, Berserker raised her shield, conscious enough to place her body between her Master and their enemy. Assassin's sword gleamed with unholy shadow, devouring even the light of the moon, leaving her a humanoid figure made of darkness, hands steady, legs tense and ready to strike.

A streak of red flashed through the darkness, forcing Assassin to drop her stance and parry it aside. A figure in crimson and black descended from the sky like a demon, hilt returning to her sheath just long enough for another blade to attach, before she drew and fired again. Scarlet blades rained down on the surprised Servant, the pressure of her mana fading as her focus split between the woman firing death from the sky and the warrior bull-rushing her from the side. Berserker swung, the edge of her shield arcing forward ... and cracking the stone wall, passing harmlessly through where Assassin had stood less than a second before.

Flipping backward, Assassin gave the three women one last furious glare, angry that her prey had been stolen from her time and time again, and stepped into the shadows. Then she was gone, flicker of pink and brown vanishing into the night.

Her eyes still a dull red, Berserker turned to the new arrival, her head cocked to the side as her legs braced beneath her. Blake settled in behind the warrior, her own blade at the ready as she stared up at the white-masked woman perched atop the garden wall. Black-and-crimson robes flicked in the breeze, held steady by the obi wrapped around her waist and the chitinous gauntlets she wore.

"Archer, did ... you catch ... her?" Weiss panted as she clambered through the gaping hole in the stone brick wall. Her breath came in short bursts, one hand clutching the stitch in her side from running all the way from the church to the estate. Blake watched as the other girl's eyes widened, flicking from the golden servant still spoiling for a fight, to the red-and-black clad warrior with her hand already on her hilt, and finally to the brunette with her teacher's blade in hand.

"You ..." she managed, fighting for breath as she stared in disbelief at the dark-haired Master. "Why are you-"

Sighing, Blake clipped the sword to her side, moving to her Servant and laying a hand on the taller woman's arm. Slowly, the blonde brawler relaxed, tension slipped reluctantly from muscled shoulders as her eyes changed back to their normal, violet hue. The other servant – Archer, Blake realized at a second glance – followed her example, her hand coming away from her hilt as she rose. Both women were still ready to fight, the way they kept the other in sight made that perfectly clear, but at least they no longer seemed actively hostile.

Turning to the Schnee magi, Blake looked the shorter girl up and down. Her eyes were wide with adrenaline, the run from the church obviously taking its toll, but she seemed mostly none the worse for wear. Her stockings were torn in a dozen places. Dirt was scuffed into her skirt and the arms of her sweater, and a tear by her shoulder had gone brown with dried blood.  _She must have come straight from the churchyard._

"You're wounded," she said, and turned towards the house.

"... it's fine," Weiss cut her off before she could leave, heedless to the two servants tensing as she stepped forward. "How are y-"

"You look like you'd pass out if you tried to heal this right now," the dark-haired woman spoke over her, fingers toying with one of the makeshift bandages covering her own souvenirs from Assassin's attack. "So either go home, or come in and wait until I have the chance to fix this."

The heiress looked like she was about to argue. Her eyes narrowed in a glare that fit her face all too well, her brows furrowed, tension building in her shoulders. Then to Blake's surprise, she frowned a little deeper and wordlessly followed the other woman inside the house. Berserker and Archer stayed close behind, each keeping the other at the corner of their eyes, hands never too far from their weapons.

Blake led them to the main room of the house, gesturing at the cushions while she rummaged in the cupboards, hunting for the first aid kit. When she turned, Weiss was already seated, looking so out of place that Blake almost laughed. She sat like a proper lady, legs tucked beneath her on the cushion, hands folded in her lap, appearing completely oblivious to the sword-marks decorating the entryway and the various scrapes and cuts both young women bore.

The first-aid kit was buried beneath the sink, and it as a matter of moments before Blake emerged, the little blue bag tucked under her arm. Laying out the equipment on the low table, Blake pulled a wet-wipe from its packet, ripping the plastic open before undoing the makeshift bandages decorating her arms.

Weiss stared down at the cotton swabs and the dark bottle of peroxide, face twisted in obvious disdain. "This would be much easier if you just used a simple healing spell."

"Yes, because people wielding blades covered with unholy shadow usually keep their swords disinfected. Same with old paving bricks she chopped up outside that run-down church." Blake rolled her eyes at the other girl's reluctance, and started dabbing one of the cotton swabs into the sharp-smelling liquid. "Now, let me clean this. Unless you'd  _like_  it to get infected."

Glaring beneath lowered brows, Weiss looked away as the taller girl began to clean her wounds. "We've never properly been introduced," she said after a moment, hold still as Blake switched to the scratches in the heiress' shoulder. "I'm-"

"I know who you are," Blake growled, wiping away more of the blood before applying the cotton swabs. "Weiss Schnee, class 2-C. The Schnee clan heir and, after your father died, the unofficial family head. You also have a habit of watching the Archery Club practice. Which causes quite a bit of gossip, since no one in the club, including me, has any idea why."

Weiss did a decent job of covering her surprise; her eyes getting a little wider was all that gave away how badly Blake had caught her off guard. Resisting the urge to chuckle, Blake considered just letting her stew, wondering who exactly this 'other mage' really was.  _That's not entirely fair_ , she relented, after a moment.  _She did technically try to save my life – even if she didn't know it was me._

"I'm-"

"Blake Belladonna, Class 3-A," Weiss rattled off, eyes narrowed as she mimicked the woman cleaning her arm. " _Former_ member of the archery club, until you injured your shoulder."

"And here I thought us mere peasants were invisible to the great Weiss Schnee."

"Don't get cute," the heiress said, giving an annoyed little shake of her head. "You're a mage?"

"Nice deflection. Yes, I have magic circuits." Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, Blake pressed the disinfectant to the heiress' shoulder. A short breath was Weiss' only sign of discomfort, and before she knew it, the Faunus had finished, the angry red scratches cleaned and covered with one of the larger bandages in the pack.

"How didn't I know about you?" she asked, rubbing at the bandage. "The Association should have informed me if there were any other mages taking up residence within the city. Much less enrolled in my school."

Blake shrugged. "Simple enough. I'm not a registered mage."

That got a reaction, Weiss' brows popping as she stared at the Faunus. Unaffiliated mages were a rare sight. It was due in part to the Association's hoarding of magical knowledge, mandating registration if a mage wanted access to their resources. The other reason was simply that unregistered mages were dangerous. For all its faults, the Mage's Association at least provided  _some_  oversight, some restrictions against the worst offenses a mage could practice. It didn't stop the 'minor' offenses – mind-wipes, brainwashing, the odd human sacrifice or experimentation – but at least it kept a lid on any attempts at vampirism or other abominations and kept the uninitiated from revealing their presence to the non-magical world.

For an unregistered mage to join something like the Holy Grail War ... it was unheard of. Even worse - if Weiss hadn't noticed her abilities, Blake was either be very good at hiding her mana, or had so little power it had escaped her notice.

She doubted the Faunus had any intention of telling her which it was.

"So," Weiss said, floundering for a second before her chin came up, the haughtiness returning to her features. "Where do we go from here?"

Letting out a long breath, Blake stood, dropping the kit back on the kitchen counter. "We're injured, tired, and even if you thought I was just some innocent bystander, you  _did_  try to save my life." "We leave it alone. For now."

"And tomorrow?" Weiss left the real question unsaid, the same one Blake was asking herself. How far were they willing to go to win the Holy Grail? Were they willing to kill a classmate? If not, would the other person share their reluctance?

It was an odd feeling, Blake thought, looking down at someone she might have to kill. She'd known the violent history of the ritual before she'd even started working on adapting Adam's sigil for the summoning, but still ... She'd assumed the other Masters would be adults, full mages in their own right, arrogant and pompous and giving her every reason to take them out. Not ... this. She'd assumed Schnee was too young, that the grail would pass over her in favor of some uncle, a cousin.

"Go home, Miss Schnee," Blake sighed, finding herself suddenly tired. Exhaustion was creeping up on her, now that her adrenaline high was fading. "Get some sleep. We'll probably try to kill each other in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while. Sorry about that - got sucked into other projects. But the good news is that yes, this is getting updated.  
> Please review, if you have the time.  
> Also, you have no idea how hard it was to resist finding an excuse for Yang to say "Puny God."


	4. Golden Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaune enters an unhappy partnership to secure a Servant for the Grail War. Blake and Yang finally get around to their introductions.

"Are you sure about this?"

Long white hair whipped as the woman kneeling on the floor turned to look at Jaune, mercury dripping from the vial in her hand. Eyes like shards of ice glared at the blond boy, his hand tightening around the xiphos he carried, narrowing to slits as she stood to her full, if not particularly impressive, height. Whatever she lacked in stature, she more than made up for with the intensity of her gaze, leering like a hawk at the nervous young man standing outside the sigil.

Winter raised a thin brow as her arms folded over her chest, weight shifting onto one hip. "What did I tell you when you wanted to use reinforcement on your legs to make you run faster?"

"… that I didn't have enough mana to maintain it for over a minute."

"And how did that work out for you?" she asked, continuing in the same breath before Jaune could even think of answering. "You collapsed before you made it halfway around the track. And let's not forget the vomiting as your body tried to compensate for the sudden heat exhaustion and dehydration."

Jaune winced from the reminder. How could he forget? Especially after the bout of nausea had earned him the moniker 'Vomit Boy' among some of his less understanding classmates.

"Or should we talk about the time you wanted to summon a familiar on your own, or try fire magic for the first time, or confessing to-"

"You made your point."

"I don't think I have." Winter sighed, slipping into the patient tone of someone dealing with a particularly foolish child. "Jaune, your grandfather made this deal with my family for a reason. You know, as well as I do, that neither you nor anyone in your family has the power to complete a summoning. Of all your siblings, you're the only one with any magic at all, and you barely have enough to light a candle without passing out. It's unfortunate, but this is simply something that you will never be able to do. If this is going to get done, it will have to be done my way. Understood?"

Jaune felt his teeth grinding. He wanted to speak up, to remind her that his family had been just as lauded as hers. That it wasn't fair for her to treat him like this, like a complete incompetent, like he didn't have any magical knowledge or ability. He almost did … but for the quiet voice in his head, reminding him that she was actually right. Any time he'd tried to magic on his own, it had ended in humiliation or disaster. If the Arc family was to have any hope of remaining a strong house within the Mages' Association … they needed this.

They needed  _her_ , as much as it pained him to admit.

"Understood."

"Good. Now, could you pass me the knife please? We left this too late as it is."

Jaune gingerly reached for the little dagger resting on the table, holding it out hilt-first for Winter to take. Nodding a measure of thanks, the young woman's fingers closed around the polished hilt, only for her other hand to whip out, grabbing Jaune by the wrist. Jaune tried to jerk away in surprise, only to find himself trapped by Winter's iron grip. Not even bothering to look at him, she held him in place as she sliced the blade clean across his palm.

The blond hissed at the pain, finally able to flinch away as the white-haired woman released his hand.

"Stop squirming. No wonder she thinks you're pathetic." Just as quickly as she had grabbed him, Winter stepped back to the circle and dumped the blood-covered knife on the table with a clatter.

"I  _am_  doing all the work here. The least you can do is give me a little blood." Her nose already in one of her tomes, she pointed to one of the basins placed around the diagram. "Squeeze. You need to fill all five of them."

Teeth clenched against the pain, Jaune followed her orders, squeezing his aching hand until blood dripped into each bowl in turn. Seeing the outstretched hand, he passed Winter the xiphos, briefly entertaining the idea of handing it to her blade-first and seeing how she liked getting her hand cut open. Instead, he dutifully took up his position at the circle's edge as she laid the artifact down in the sigil's center. They  _had_  needed the blood after all.

Moving to his side, Winter took his hand in hers, her voice raised in the starting lines of the incantation. Taking a breath, Jaune's voice joined hers, lifting and falling, the magic easing him into a steady rhythm with the woman at his side. In an instant, the two were in perfect harmony, power flowing down his arm into Winter, adding his mana to hers as she called on the spirit of their pact. Each word built upon the power in that room, pounding into a rising beat that drummed against his ears. He felt light-headed, and made sure to steady himself against the table. It always happened like this, the strain of the magic taking a larger toll on him than it should, requiring more and more until he'd collapse, the spell almost always unfinished. The only reason it hadn't happened already was Winter, rude and caustic and eternally insufferable, far more powerful than he could ever hope to be and made worse by the fact that she was almost always right.

The white-haired woman said that last lines of their pact, finishing the contract that would bind the heroic spirit to their will. Golden light washed from the spell circle, as warm as the sun and twice as bright, blinding Jaune as the magic rushed from him, blasting out across the room. Spell ingredients and tomes rustled in its wake, pages flipping in the sudden wind. Jaune staggered and hunched over the table as the magic drained out of him. He felt like he'd just run a marathon while the other runners beat him like a piñata. His head throbbing abominably, his vision swam and his stomach churned. At least he hadn't thrown up – he'd made it a personal rule not to eat before performing magic after the track incident.

Putting most of his weight on the table, the young man looked up, eyes widening as the light faded, revealing a woman kneeling within the bounds of their sigil. Even on her knees, she looked tall, at least Jaune's height, and clad head-to-toe in gleaming bronze, scarlet hair spilling out from beneath her helm and cascading down her back. She held both spear and shield in her hands, with a sword not unlike the one they'd used to summon her belted at her waist.

"Are you my master?" she asked, her voice soft and mild, gentle emerald eyes reminding him of endless, rolling hills.

"I … we … uh-" Jaune stammered, his thoughts derailed by the gorgeous woman looking up at him.

" _We_  are," Winter said, not bothering to look at her partner as she spoke. "This is Jaune, of the Arc family of magi. I'm Winter Schnee. Your name?"

"Rider," the servant answered, managing to make something that would sound sarcastic from anyone else seem genuinely helpful. "In my former life I was Achilleía, child of Thetis and Peleus, Commander of the Myrmidons, Slayer of-"

"That's enough titles." The more senior mage blinked, her brow furrowing. "I expected Achilles to be a man."

"So did Odysseus when first we met." A smile flashed across the redhead's face at the memory, a soft laugh coming under her breath. "Not that it stopped him from recruiting me for Agamemnon's war."

"Wait," Jaune rubbed at his temple, still light-headed from the ritual. " _You're_ Achilles?"

"I was, yes."

" _The_  Achilles? Greatest warrior in Greek history? Undefeated on the battlefield and only slain by a coward's lucky arrow?"

The redhead let out a short laugh, one that was way too cute for someone who'd dragged a man's body behind her chariot in a fit of fury. "Everyone has it in for Paris. To his credit, it was a pretty difficult shot."

Jaune felt his mouth go dry as she rose to her feet, slipping off her helmet before meeting his gaze. Loose red hair tumbled down "I didn't know I had a fan."

"… I loved the  _Iliad_."

"Moving on," Winter growled, one hand already rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "To specify the terms of our contract: both Jaune and myself will serve as your sources of mana throughout the Grail war. I bear the command seals, but Jaune will serve as your master and support in the field."

Green eyes glanced briefly between the two mages. "I have no objections."

"Good. I'll let the two of you figure out your battle plans." Dusting her hands, Winter strode towards the exit to the workshop, catching Jaune's shoulder as she passed.

"Jaune, a word of advice?"

"Yeah?"

"Let  _her_  do most of the planning."

* * *

"You don't know your own  _name_ ?"

Blake felt her fingers tightening on the tabletop. Taking a breath, she forced her hands to relax on the dark-grained wood. Ignoring the twinge in her arm where Assassin had slashed it, she looked over at the blonde seated on the opposite side of the low table, currently trying to find a comfortable position atop the cushions.

"It's not that I don't  _know_." Berserker said, trying once more to fold her legs into a passable copy of Blake's posture. She winced as her legs complained, unaccustomed to the kneeling position. With a growl, she grabbed an extra pillow from atop the tatami mat and flopped down on her side, head propped up on one arm. "I've had several, and I'm just not sure which one I am right now."

Blake let out a long breath before rubbing at the bridge of her nose. To be fair, many of the old heroes carried more than one name. It was possible that Berserker among those whose story had migrated, the name changing here and there and being added to over time. It wasn't uncommon. Plenty of mythic figures picked up new names in new lands, or had their stories rolled into others. Heracles changed to Hercules, Sigurd to Siegfried, and Gwalchmei to Gawain. The stories weren't always the same, but parts of the original tale remained at the core of the new one.

Not that it made Berserker's confusion any less worrying. Any Servant carried with them the marks of their legend, distilled down into their Noble Phantasms, artifacts or abilities that represented their power. A hero with a strong connection to a particular sword might have that blade as their Phantasm, or a knight with a legendary horse might have the ability to summon their steed.

"… you can't just pick one?" Blake asked. With a Servant's name came the knowledge of their legend and, by proxy, at least a guess at what their Noble Phantasms might be. Granted, Berserkers rarely had complicated abilities – part of the trade-off for the power their berserk state could bring – but Blake had never heard of a Berserker with this weak a level of Mad Enhancement. Most Berserkers were unintelligible, their sanity sacrificed for the sake of power.

"Nope," said the blonde, grabbing another cushion and laying back on the tatami. "What if I got it wrong?"

"Could you give me a best guess?" At this point, Blake would settle for just about any clue. All she knew was that her Servant was partial to her shield. The armor was definitely European, but that still left several centuries and the mythologies of an entire continent to work from.

"If I had to?" Berserker stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowing. "Kara, maybe?"

The dark-haired Faunus blinked, racking her brain for some legend by the name of Kara. The name meant nothing to her, outside a South Korean pop group and a science-fiction fighter pilot. That in itself was worrying. The Berserker class might be able to compensate with a power boost for a second or third-tier hero, but still …

No. Adam had been the one to find the artifact, to  _choose_  this particular spirit to summon. He must have had his reasons, must have thought that Berserker would be capable of winning the Grail War.

_Unless he just made a mistake and the artifact belonged to some two-bit country squire with a minor folktale._

"If it's that big a deal, you could always pick me a new one," Berserker said, her shrug sending waves down her brown leather surcoat and the scale mail beneath it.

"That doesn't solve the problem."

"Maybe. But it'll be fun." Pushing off the ground, she leaned forward, violet eyes flickering as she grinned. "Come on, Belladonna."

Sighing, Blake stood and walked over to the kitchen. Doubts about Berserker's strength aside, this wasn't the worst idea. Setting something up in case the servant was spotted wasn't a bad idea. Granted, it cost her the use of one pre-made identity, but it wasn't that costly.

Kneeling down on the tile floor, she pried open a loose corner of a vent, pulling until the entire metal grate came free. Reaching into the wall behind, she rummaged about in her hiding place – a 'slick,' as Adam had called it – until she pulled back, a thick manila envelope in her hand. Re-sealing the vent, she went back to the table, upending the package and watching as various laminated cards with holographic designs clattered onto the table.

"I assume you know what IDs are?"

"More or less," Berserker nodded. As part of the Grail system, Servants were summoned with a general understanding of modern society, which made them significantly The other major benefit was an understanding of the area's native tongue, and that of their Master – after all, the war would be next to impossible if your servant spoke an unintelligible dialect of Ancient Egyptian.

"Good. How about this one?" Blake asked, sliding over one of the cards at random.

"Kate?" Berserker asked, her disapproval clear. "How about something less overused? There's waaay too many Kates."

"… how would you know that?"

"There's  _always_  been too many Kates."

Rolling her eyes, Blake shuffled through the throwaway IDs.

"Here."

"Do I look like a Martha to you?"

"This one?"

"Esther? Really?" One blond brow raised as Berserker looked askance at the other woman. "You're not very good at this game."

"Just pick one yourself then."

Berserker grinned and leaned forward, sifting through the IDs like a child setting up a card game. Eyes closed, she swirled the cards on the table, before finally plucking one from the pile. Opening her eyes, she grinned. "Ooh, this one!"

Looking at the card, Blake sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Of course," she said. "The Nordic blonde picks an ID with a Chinese name. That won't be hard to explain at all."

"I'll just say my dad got around." Berserker grinned, holding the little square of plastic out in front of her. "'Yang Xiao Long.' Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey, two chapters in as many weeks. Feeling good about that. Well, there's Pyrrha for you, and a bit of a hint as to who Yang is.**
> 
> **Chapter 5 Preview:**
> 
> _**The priest stood in the center of the room, blood dripping from his hand, falling down onto a circle etched into the floor. Long, archaic writing flowed around the circle’s edge, criss-crossed by the lines forming a star in the center.** _
> 
> _**Moving as carefully as his corpulent body would let him, the priest reached into the crate. When his hand emerged, it was wrapped delicately around a length of rope. Holding it at arm’s length like a serpent, he laid it in the center of the diagram, before stepping back and continuing his inane chanting.** _
> 
> **So, not Orthodox then** _**, Roman thought, and slipped a little further behind the wall**._
> 
> **Please review, if you have** **the time - the alerts on my phone make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.**


	5. Wicked Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dapper thief stumbles across a rather disturbing ritual. Jaune tries to the play the good host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Monty.

_The trick,_  the man thought as he slid the tension wrench into the lock,  _is knowing just where to push._

It was a good attitude to live by, in his opinion. Every lock, every tumbler, every high-security biometric seal could be cracked. As long as you knew how. Every house, every bank, every office complex and high-rise had some way in, some security flaw a clever thief like himself could exploit.

Not that this was one of those difficult ones. Biting his lower lip beneath his balaclava, the man turned his head just a tad, giving himself a better view down the darkened street as he fiddled with the pick, eyes narrowed in concentration. The lock that held the side door shut was old, with hints of rust creeping in along the edges of the metal. Old and big – it looked like someone had bought it for just that reason, thinking that a bigger, thicker lock would be harder to crack.

It wasn't. The lock clicked after a few seconds, and Roman smirked as the door swung open, silent on freshly-oiled hinges. Putting his tools and the small bottle of oil away, he settled his bag across his shoulders and stepped into the church.

He had to suppress a wince at the sight of the beatific Virgin Mary and the high ceiling designed specifically to make you feel small, as his catholic upbringing reared its ugly head. It was the one legacy of his childhood he hadn't quite managed to do away with, and memories of being bored out of his mind and swiping other children's snacks at Sunday school sprang unbidden to mind. Ignoring the urge to cross himself, he slipped down past the darkened pews, his cane swinging back and forth off one wrist.

It was odd, now that he thought of it. The last time he'd entered a church had been ... what? Ten years ago? Twelve? Long enough to finally forget the words to those mindless chants they'd forced him to learn.

 _That's not entirely fair,_  he chided himself, moving to the door that led to what should be the back rooms of the chapel. After all, some of his first thefts had happened in a room much like this one. For all he'd despised the constant sermons and the holier-than-thou back-patting that seemed to make up most of these meetings, this was the classroom where he'd learned that quick, clever fingers would let him put the quarter his mother gave him into a collection plate and come away with three.

 _And here I am, prodigal and returned, and about to do the biggest job of my career._  He had to smile at the irony; he'd spent most of his adult life trying to get as far as he could from a place just like this, and after running halfway around the globe, his feet carried him right back into one of these sanctimonious hell-holes. Well, after all the crap he'd had to put up with, the least the church could do was make sure he was set up for life.

The door to the back rooms was even easier than the last one, and soon Roman found himself skulking past living quarters and storage rooms. He paused for a second, hand hovering over the doorknob to one of the side rooms, ears perked for any sign of movement, before moving on. What he was after wasn't the kind of thing to leave lying around atop some dusty chairs or among some deacon's personal possessions.

The mystery crate, brought to Roman's attention by one of his more unscrupulous contacts, had been shipped from the Vatican to Dubai, had its transport documents faked and replaced, moved onto a plane, flown up to Vladivostok, and finally shipped again, under a new set of falsified documentation, all the way to Japan. None of which made any sense. At least, not for something strictly legal. There were far better ways to move something sensitive, ways that didn't require breaking quite so many customs laws and bribing that many officials. Anything important enough to require this level of secrecy would be much more likely just to be sent by diplomatic courier, set in some sealed pouch along with a representative of the Vatican City. Whatever it was, whoever had sent it wanted it completely under wraps, most likely even from the church itself. For a man like himself, that just made it all the more tempting.

The priest's office door fell to his skills as quickly as the previous ones, opening onto a spartan room with just enough ornamentation to be impressive without making people ask exactly where the church's money was being spent. Books lined the shelves near the messy desk, set opposite a closet filled with cleaning supplies and a particularly moth-eaten coat. It took under a minute to find the safe, hidden – of course – behind a painting of some vaguely religious scene Roman only half-recognized. Grinning, the red-haired man got to work, well-trained fingers ghosting over the safe as he fiddled with the combination lock.

As jaded as he thought he was, he couldn't deny the thrum of anticipation building as he found each piece of the combination. The Vatican wouldn't put this much bother into a pair of holy candlesticks. A text was more likely, some dusty old tome, barely preserved, written in some ancient monk's chicken scratch that showed some historical gobbled gook about church life. Hopefully, some horrid scandal that the church would be happy to to have returned, and that foreign buyers would pay even more dearly to get for themselves. Not that it really mattered. It could be an icon of Saint Peter trimming his toenails for he cared. Judging from the effort that had gone into hiding it, whatever was in that package had to be valuable, precious, and that would mean an even bigger payday for whichever lucky thief managed to get his grubby hands on it.

He had almost found the last number in the combination when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the painting back over the safe and went for the door, only to hear the sound of a key being slid into the lock. For a second, Roman considered just knocking whoever it was over the head and leaving them hog-tied in the office while he left.

_Then again, why do all the work here, if they can just do it for me? No reason to put in the extra effort if I don't have to._

By the time the door swung open, the room was completely deserted. Roman watched through the slits in the closet door as a portly man stepped into the office. Muttering to himself and running a hand through his short grey hair, the man Roman could only assume was the priest moved behind the desk and pulled aside the painting. From his hiding spot, Roman watched as he entered the combination, setting it aside in case he needed to get it open again.

He was just about to slip out the closet door, knock the old man over the head, and take whatever he had stashed away when the priest turned, an old, ornate, and very sharp-looking dagger held in his hands. The blade was the length of his forearm, and curved in a way that could only be described as 'wicked.'

Roman went still as a statue as he watched, mind whirling as the priest pulled an old, fire-blackened book from the safe, cradling it in his hands before balancing it under one arm and walking back towards the door of his study. With a click of the lock, he was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hall.

 _Exactly what kind of priest keeps a dagger in his safe?_ Roman thought, slipping out of the closet.  _I'd expect a personal bible, the church accounts, maybe a few naughty pictures of his altar boys. But a dagger?_ Unless ... maybe  _that_  was what had been in the package from the Vatican. It hadn't looked particularly valuable. Then again, maybe someone had used it to shiv some other important person. There was a considerable market for that sort of thing, and the more people killed with it, the higher the payout.

Curiosity piqued, he moved for the door, following the corpulent man's footsteps from the shadows. It wasn't particularly difficult. Inexperience, or just the feeling that he was safe in his own church, kept the priest from checking to see if he was being watched. Add that to the soft carpet beneath his shoes, and Roman could probably dance a tango behind the man without him noticing.

The priest led him out into the church grounds, back behind the building to a small cemetery hidden between a few ragged lines of trees. A small stone mausoleum sat at the back, looking Neolithic and foreboding in the darkness.

Roman hugged the wall of the church as the priest glanced over his shoulder, looking around for anyone who might be watching him. Finding no one, the man muttered something to himself and hauled open the door to the crypt, archaic hinges creaking as he closed it behind him.

It was an easy matter of dripping oil into the hinges before Roman opened the door himself and slid inside. The mausoleum was just as depressing on the inside as it was on the outside, dark, sinister, and smelling of mold and decay.

Voices carried up the stone corridor, and Roman was happy to listen as he tiptoed down the stairs.

"... don't mean to speak out of turn, but do you really think this is a good idea?" someone said, sounding higher than Roman was have expected from the heavyset priest.

"Would you rather leave the Holy Grail to be taken by some false conjurer?"  _There we go._ The second voice was deeper, more formal, tinged with the rhetoric he'd expected. That had to be the priest. And the Holy Grail? If it were true ... that would be the heist of a lifetime. More than retirement money, that would be 'buy a small country with no extradition treaty and rule like a king' money. _If_ it were true, and it was a pretty big 'if.'

"I understand, Father, and I agree," the younger voice said, grudging patience tinting his voice. "But, you've already had to use two command seals just to keep that woman from killing us and burning this place to the ground."

"You would give up? Forsake your duty to the Lord?"

"No, of course not. Maybe we could talk to the supervisor? There has to be a way to receive another Servant, one less ... disturbed than this one."

"There is not. Once one is summoned, the container for that Servant is consumed. Our only hope is to use her to defeat another Master, then form a pact with their masterless Servant."

"...you think we have a chance against them?"

"I think we do not have much choice. Not if we want to keep the Grail from falling into unclean hands."

Roman cocked a brow at that. This was making less and less sense the longer he listened. On the one hand, it was unlikely that the Holy Grail actually existed, or at least  _still_ existed after all this time. And even assuming it did, what the hell would it be doing in Japan or all places? All this about 'Masters' and 'Servants' ... maybe this whole thing was less 'religious intrigue' and more 'creepy priest has a bondage club in his basement.' That would be disappointing. Especially if the package had just been some tawdry secret the church had ransomed from a blackmailer.

No. The Vatican would have just destroyed the evidence, not gone through the trouble of sending it back.

Trying to decide whether to just cut his losses and leave, Roman snuck towards the lit room at the base of the crypt. Edging his head around the corner of the doorway, the thief peered into the room and ...

_Holy mother of-_

The older priest stood in the center of the room, blood dripping from his hand, falling down onto a circle etched into the floor. Long, archaic writing flowed around the circle's edge, crisscrossed by lines forming a pentagram in the center. The younger man stood beside him, dark brown hair mussed atop his robes, holding the fire-blackened book from the safe in his arms.

Moving as carefully as his heavyset body would let him, the priest reached for the tome. Holding it at arm's length like a serpent, he laid it in the center of the diagram, before stepping back and continuing his inane chanting.

 _So ... not Orthodox then,_  Roman thought, and slipped a little further behind the wall. Satanic, maybe? To be fair, that wasn't a  _bad_  thing. Disturbing religious artifacts always fetched a high price – no matter who was buying. The desperate thought owning some relic or other might make their afterlife a little bit easier. The uncaring and uninterested just wanted a little piece of history all to themselves.

Easing a little bit further past the wall, Roman caught a better look into the room and shuddered. One wall was drenched in blood, the too-red look of the stains making it pretty damn clear that it wasn't some corn-starch substitute for effect. Wax candles lit the room, balanced of recesses in the walls and littered around the circle's edge. From the new angle, he could just make out a third figure knelt on the opposite side of the circle from the two priests. It was a woman, wearing a black-and-red gown over a body that would definitely look better without it. Low-cut and close-fitting, the dress left little to the imagination. Pitch-black tresses tumbled past her shoulders, the sweep of her hair covering half her face as she knelt, head bowed towards the floor. She was beautiful, and the kind of beautiful that you just  _knew_ meant trouble.

_Yup. Definitely some kink thing._

Deciding not to judge, Roman was about to leave when the woman's head twitched up. Her eyes were an unnatural molten gold, flickering in the firelight and smoldering with barely controlled rage. Silently, she met his eyes, her gaze piercing through the haze of smoke to meet his own.

Cursing, Roman slipped back behind the wall, ready to make a run for the doorway when he heard a feminine voice call out.

"Free me," she said, the sound a soft, velvety purr.

"Quiet, witch," the younger priest snapped, glaring from across the room.

The witch ignored him, her eyes staring straight through the robed men to the thief hiding behind the bend in the wall. "Free me, and I will win you the Holy Grail."

Roman pressed himself deeper against the wall. Option one: he could leave, get the hell away from the whole mess, and spend the next few days inside a bottle to make sure he never remembered the sight of the blood-covered crypt again. All he'd have to do is leave. Leave, and forget about whatever payday he could get from whatever this pair of psychopaths was hiding. Or ...

"It can grant any wish, any desire. Anything that you want is yours, and all you have to do is hit this idiot over the head once or twice."

"Silence woman. We will not be swayed by the blasphemous promises of some heretic conjurer."

Golden eyes sparkled as the woman glanced up at the priest, a small smile playing about her lips. "I was not talking to  _you_."

Eyes wide, the younger priest whirled to face the doorway, just in time to see the heavy end of Roman's cane crash down between his eyes.

* * *

"Sorry," Jaune mumbled, waving vaguely around the kitchen. "I'm not exactly sure what you're supposed to do when a mythic hero comes home."

The redheaded woman smiled, and perched atop one of the stools by the counter. Without anything else to do, Jaune had settled on giving her the grand tour of the Arc mansion. Rider acted suitably impressed – although Jaune had no idea how she could find any of this interesting. Not after seeing Greek palaces in all their splendor. She was particularly interested in the microwave and the washing machine.

Apparently, the Grail gave each servant a general idea of the time into which they were summoned. Still, that wasn't the same as actually seeing modern conveniences in use. The idea of a machine that could keep food from spoiling, or wash your clothes on its own ... Jaune kinda got why Rider found them fascinating.

An easygoing smile crossed her face as Rider made room for her helmet atop the cluttered table. "In my time, hosts handed you food, drink, and told you who they needed killed. Trust me, you're doing fine."

"Nice to hear I'm holding up to Greek standards," Jaune said, relived that he wasn't accidentally insulting her by not being a good host. Or was she just being polite? "Are you hungry? We've got plenty of food."

"Thank you. But, I don't actually  _need_  to eat," she said. "Not like this."

"Oh ... right. Sorry." Jaune drummed his fingers on the countertop and tried to stop his leg from bouncing. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do. It wasn't every day that you had a mythic Greek hero in your kitchen, wearing full armor and trying to find a place to lean her spear.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Feel free."

"Why do you want the Grail, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, you were a hero. You're famous. As famous as Heracles or any of the other Greek heroes."

"That's kind of you to say, but even heroes have regrets, Jaune."

"Like Patroclus?"

The redheaded woman's jaw tensed at the name, her fingers tightening from reflex around the haft of her spear.

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly. "Among others."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's alright. It is strange to know that the details of your life are common knowledge some millennia after your death."

"Price of being a legend, I guess," he said. "And I wouldn't call them 'common knowledge.' Most people only know about you because of the 'heel' thing."

"My entire life's story is reduced down to my one weakness?"

"No, I mean, it's just the most famous part." "Achilles' heel is famous, but ... I mean, most people think you were a guy, and there's the whole 'hiding as Pyrrha' bit."

Rider laughed, a happy, chirping sound, and Jaune felt his ears go red. "In answer to your question, Jaune of the Arc clan, I would like a second chance. A chance to redo the Trojan War, to protect the people I cared about. Maybe this time, I wouldn't make the same mistakes."

She leaned in with a gentle smile, planting her elbows on the table. "Now, what is  _your_  wish for the Holy Grail?"

Jaune froze, his mouth half-open. It wasn't something he generally talked about. Actually, it was something he  _never_ talked about, something  _his family_  never talked about. Then again ... she  _had_  told him her wish for the Grail, more or less. It was only fair her returned the favor.

"My family ... our magic's dying," he managed, glancing down at the ground before he continued. "My grandfather was one of the great mages of his era, and now ... I can barely manage a spell without it blowing up in my face."

"I'm sure you'll make a fine mage someday."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "You'd be the only one."

Brows furrowed, the redhead reach across the table, laying her hand on top of his. "You managed to summon a servant for the Holy Grail war. That is no small feat."

"Winter summoned you. I'm ... I'm just backup. The family representative," he stammered, acutely aware of the flush spreading from his ears to the rest of his face. "She's the real mage. Not me. Hell, the whole reason my grandfather and her dad promised us to each other was so our line wouldn't completely die out."

"Jaune, you're participating in a sacred, age-old battle for an artifact that can alter reality. I doubt most mages can say the same."

"Fair enough, I guess."

"Good. Now, Master," she said, and Jaune was almost surprised that he didn't hear any trace of mocking in her voice. "What is our first move?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, if you can. It's been a blast getting to read everyone's responses so far.
> 
> Chapter 6 Preview:
> 
> _Whatever he was about to say was cut short as Roman ground the tip of his cane against the man’s throat, pressing just hard enough to cut off his air._
> 
> _“Ah ah ah. No talking,” he said, wagging his finger at the gasping priest. “I believe you owe me one grail of debatable divinity?”_
> 
> _The figure in black rose from the floor, her long gown swirling about her legs. “Not quite yet. Not while he still lives.”_
> 
> _Roman rolled his eyes, letting up on the cane just enough for the man to draw breath. “Fine. Kill him, grind up an eye of newt, whatever you need to do, and let’s get out of here.”_
> 
> _“Unfortunately for both of us, I can’t touch him.” The woman moved to stand by Roman’s side, staring down at the suffocating father in abject disgust and fury. “Not as long as he has that seal.”_
> 
> _“So what exactly do you want me to do?”_
> 
> _“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, looking over at him as if he’d asked the dumbest question in the world. “Either slit his throat with the knife he was so kind to bring you, or cut off his hand and let me do the honors.”_


	6. Alliance of Convenience

Smiling all the while, Roman brought his cane crashing down between the younger priest's eyes. The heavy wood landed with a crack, staggering the young man before he toppled unconscious to the ground. Candles and melting wax flew across the bizarre drawing on the floor, scattered by the falling body, fetching up against the side of the table.

The sound of metal on metal hit Roman's ears. On instinct, the thief leapt back, just in time for the elder priest's dagger to slice harmlessly through the air. Stepping over his fallen ally, the older man kept coming, slashing wildly at the black-clothed thief. Ducking under the man's swing, Roman flipped his cane end-over-end, catching the rubber bottom. When the priest slashed again, Roman was ready – the handle of his walking stick caught the other man's wrist, wrenching it up and around before slamming the butt up into the heavyset man's nose.

The knife clattered to the floor as the priest stumbled back. Howling in pain, the man clutched his hands over his face, trying to stem the tide streaming from his broken nose. Hooking one leg with the cane, Roman yanked hard, knocking the man off his feet. He fell to the ground with a thud, blood spurting between his fingers.

"Witch!" the corpulent priest managed, his words slurred behind his hands and the busted nose. "I order you t-"

A swift kick to the ribs cut off whatever he'd been about to say. The man jerked back, hands going from his bleeding nose to his busted gut. Flipping him over with his boot, Roman ground the tip of his cane against the man's throat, pressing just hard enough to cut off his air.

"Ah ah ah. No talking," the thief said, wagging his finger at the gasping priest. Keeping the cane pressed down, Roman turned to the dark figure. As he watched, the woman rose to her feet and smoothed the lines of her dress. It was midnight black, with a cloak that served to give the billowing look the thief had noticed. Beneath was a tight silk gown, as deep a black but molded to her form, with a plunging neckline that left little of the woman's charms to the imagination.

"Now," Roman drawled. "I believe someone owes me a cup of debatable divinity?"

The woman spared Roman a look, her uncovered eye gleaming like molten fire in the dimly-lit room.

"Not quite yet," she said, her voice a low purr that promised quick and violent retribution for the men who had imprisoned her. "Not while he still lives."

Roman rolled his eyes, letting up on the cane just enough for the man to breathe. "Fine. Kill him, rip out his heart, grind up an eye of newt – whatever you need to do – and let's get moving."

"Unfortunately for both of us, I can't touch him." The woman moved to stand by Roman's side, staring down at the suffocating father in complete disgust. "Not as long as he has that seal."

Following the woman's gaze, Roman looked down at the gasping man. There, on his right hand, was a set of red-inked lines. Two of them had the look of a day-old ink stamp, faded and dull against the one last vibrant slash mark on his skin.

"Right. I'll call a doctor. Maybe they can get us an appointment tomorrow to have it lasered off."

"Don't get cute," she said, looking at him with the perplexed expression of someone having to explain something perfectly obvious. "You can either slit his throat with the knife he was so kind to bring you, or cut off his hand and let me do the honors."

"... really?"

"Of course. Frankly, I would prefer the second option," she purred. "He and his pet had me down here for  _weeks_."

Roman cocked an eyebrow and looked back at the priest. The rotund father stared back, a mixture of fear, rage, and – of course – blood on his face. Flipping the cane end-over-end, Torchwick caught the rubber-capped bottom, letting the heavy handle whistle as it swung through the air. It had a nice weight to it, which was why he'd bought it in the first place. A good, solid, wooden handle, heavy and hard enough to crack a skull with ease.

There was just a hint of guilt as Roman raised the cane above his head. The last vestige of his Catholic upbringing. One he wouldn't miss.

"No hard feelings," Roman said with a smile.

* * *

"Are you sure that was the best idea?"

"What exactly was I supposed to do?" Weiss snapped, glowering over at the red-clad figure lounging against the wall.

Thankfully, Archer had kept her silence during the long trek back to the Schnee mansion. But now that the two were safe behind the wards and defenses surrounding the house, apparently it was time to discuss her tactical decisions.

"Blake and I were both injured after dealing with Assassin. It made better sense to wait to attack until after I'd had time to recover."

Dropping her bag to the floor, the white-haired girl let herself collapse onto the sofa. She winced as she landed, her shoulder still tender after slamming into the ground to avoid Assassin's attack. Her feet ached from traipsing around the city, and a steady throbbing was starting to develop behind her right eye.

Gritting her teeth, Weiss was halfway to digging herself out of the sofa when something flew towards her face. Jerking back, she caught it out of reflex, her heart pounding after one more shock in a day full of them. Looking more closely at the object, she found herself holding a small, laminated cardboard box, store-brand name printed in big block letters above the words 'Pain Relief.' Putting it aside, she glanced up to find a glass of water in Archer's outstretched hand.

Giving the suddenly helpful servant a suspicious glare, Weiss popped the pills from their packaging, knocked back half the glass, and swallowed. Archer took the box of pills and the empty glass and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Weiss to massage her aching temples. When the servant returned, she leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, red eyes staring intently at the young magus.

"What?" Weiss asked, tired and definitely not in the mood for a sulking servant.

"At the moment, we are only aware of two other combatants in the Grail War." Archer growled from behind her mask. "Namely Assassin, whose master seems content to send her out after enemy servants from afar, and a Berserker with the weakest example of Mad Enhancement I've ever seen."

"Your point?"

"As far as I could tell, her abilities don't seem to be anything particularly impressive."

Weiss frowned. The mainstay of the Berserker class, Mad Enhancement, was a component of the summoning spell that sacrificed sanity for strength, giving the servant a boost to all their abilities in exchange for their mind. Some cases were more drastic than others, trying to get as much strength as possible from a weaker servant, but she'd never heard of one being summoned with a rank this low. Most Berserkers were barely capable of conscious thought, much less stringing more than two words together.

More importantly, Assassin was well-known among magi as one of the weakest servants – better for attacking enemy masters than their heroes – and a normal Berserker should be capable of squashing any assassin within minutes. If this Berserker couldn't even stand up to  _her_  ...

"Perhaps, but without some knowledge of her Noble Phantasms, or her real identity, it's better to be cautious about confronting her."

"Speaking of identity," Weiss growled, scowling over at the red-and-black clad servant leaning against the wall, "I don't suppose any of your memory has come back?"

Archer shifted her weight under the intensity of Weiss' stare, weight shifting to her other leg as she fiddled with the hilt of her sword.

"Nothing. My best guess is that it's a side effect of my botched summoning."

Weiss grimaced and closed her eyes.  _Wonderful. Another reprimand._

"But I remember  _her_."

"Who? Berserker?" Weiss asked, brows raising in surprise when Archer nodded. "You must have known her in life, then."

"Do I look like a Viking to you?"

Weiss had to admit, the dark armor and kimono-looking jacket were about as far from her idea of a 'Viking' as it was possible to get. Not to mention the cylinder of rotating blades for Archer's nodachi.

Still, it was the only possibility. Servants were reflections of original heroic legends, created by the Grail ritual for the sake of the Holy Grail War. They weren't the heroes made flesh, just magical constructs capable of immense power. And when a war ended, they faded away. Even if Archer and Berserker had both fought in a previous war, they wouldn't have any memory of it. The Archer from that time would be nothing more than another copy.

Sighing, she ran her hand through her hair, rubbing briefly at a tension headache that started to build behind her eyes. One of the bigger problems with the Grail was that summoned heroic spirits were influenced by the way their legend was remembered. Whether it was a side effect of the popular version of the myth, or an intentional trick to try and hide the identities of the more famous Servants, it made it almost impossible at times to guess the identity of an individual Servant.

"What was your second concern?"

Archer stared at her for a long moment. "You called her 'Blake.'"

"... so?"

"I didn't know you were on a first name basis."

"We go to the same school. I've seen her around. That's all."

"Right," Archer sighed, pushing off the wall as she dematerialized. "And your shock at seeing her was  _definitely_  just the reaction of a distant classmate."

* * *

The dark-haired woman sagged against the wall as the last breath left the priest's body. Roman cocked an eyebrow as she stumbled, catching herself on the stone with one hand when her knees shook.

"Give me your hand," she growled, silk-covered palm outstretched.

Roman gave the woman a wary look. "Considering what you did to the last guy with a hand you didn't like-"

"Without sufficient mana of my own, or a constant supply, I won't be able to stay in this world for very long." Pushing herself off the wall, she managed to come to her full height, despite the occasional shake. "So, if you want to have any chance of finding the Grail, I suggest you  _give me your hand_."

Roman weighed his options, then grudgingly took the woman's hand. This whole fake-magic and superstition business wasn't really his scene. He'd put up with a few rumors here or there if it bumped up a price, but .... Well, whatever ridiculous ritual she was trying to do, it would be worth it if it got him the Grail. And if she tried anything, he still had the dagger.

"Repeat after me," she said, eyes closed. "Let silver and steel be the essence. Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."

"Seriously?"

"... if that's too difficult for you, I can always use the short version."

"Just get this over with."

Sighing, the woman flicked some of the hair out of her face, then began to speak.

" _Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail._

 _Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth._ "

Roman followed along, trying not to laugh of the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. Him, holding some witch-woman's hand in a crypt, standing above one unconscious man and one corpse, with a sacrificial dagger in his other hand.

It had been a weird night.

" _An oath shall be sworn here._

_Let it be decided; your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword._

_So swear to me_!"

Torchwick suppressed a shiver as he finished the last few lines. For a crypt, the place was surprisingly drafty, the air stirring and making the candles flicker wildly. The longer they were down there, the longer she spoke, the more air swept into the tomb from the graveyard outside.

"I accept your oath."

As soon as the words left her mouth, fire lanced across Roman's skin. He yanked his hand away, snarling as he put the point of the dagger between them. Sparing a glance for his hand, Roman watched as red lines etched themselves onto the skin beneath his knuckles, extending up to just past his wrist.

"Neat trick," he growled, once the lines had stopped growing. The searing pain vanished too, leaving only a dull ache in the skin.

"Don't whine – you sound like a child." Sighing, she walked towards the body of the older priest, stopping as her shoes met the blood slowly pooling from his broken skull. "Now, head back upstairs. We've already tarried here too long."

 _Great, five seconds in and she's giving me orders._ She had a point though – the place was a crime scene now, and the faster they got out of there the better. Moving over to the stairwell, Roman looked back over his shoulder.

"You coming?"

The woman's lips twisted in a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes.

"I will be right behind you."

Shrugging, Roman climbed back up the stairs, looking over his shoulder in case this psycho decided he was the next person she wanted dead.

The dagger in the back he was waiting for never came. After a minute, he was back in the cool night air, free of the candle smoke and the stench of cheap incense. Taking a breath, he turned to look at the darkened church, the night sky star-lit behind it.

The sound of heeled shoes on stone echoed up the stairwell. The woman in the black dress was climbing the steps, her long skirt gathered up in one hand and showing off a good deal of leg. The stench of burning flesh followed her, carried by tendrils of smoke rising from the depths of the mausoleum.

In no hurry whatsoever, the woman stepped through the door to the crypt, then closed the double doors behind her.

"Well, at least they won't find the bodies," Roman drawled, knowing the smell of a pending arson conviction.

"No," she said, and Roman swore he heard barely restrained fury in her voice. "No, they will not."

Black skirts whirling, she turned to face him. "Your name," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Torchwick." Not the best alias he had, but it would do. "You?"

"Caster."

Well, fair's fair, he supposed.

"Okay 'Caster,'" he said, not entirely able to keep the ridicule from his voice. "Where's my mystical drinking cup?"

"... do you really doubt the existence of magic, Torchwick?" "

"I'm a little too old to believe in fairy stories about a magic cup." Hell, he'd been old enough to realize the idiocy and self-aggrandizing behind the church when he was  _five._  "But I'm more than happy to let someone who  _does_  believe in that nonsense pay me a disturbing amount of money for it."

"Then this should not surprise you in the least."

Not bothering to look away, Caster raised her hand. With a flash, fire lanced from her fingertips towards the old church, arcing and spreading until it slammed into the side of the old building. The dry wood with peeling paint caught instantly, flames crackling as they crawled up onto the shingled roof. Within seconds the whole building was ablaze, half the roof collapsing in as the fires ate through the support beams.

"Come," she said softly, dusting off her hands. "We have quite a lot of work to do."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's come up a couple of times, the reason that Pyrrha is Rider is that Achilles (who Pyrrha is based on) shows up as a servant in Fate Apocrypha (It's not really a spoiler - the narration tells the reader the servants' identities almost immediately).
> 
> As for the rest, Blake is a mix of Shirou (relationship with Adam/Kiritsugu) and Maya (training and combat skill) from Zero. Jaune takes the Shirou traits that Blake doesn't (hopeless idealism, occasional idiotic chivalry) and mixes them with Shinji's place in the story and El-Melloi's pact.


	7. Enemy of My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake and Weiss decide to get their conflict over with. Jaune discovers there is more than one Master hanging around his school.

It always amazed her, the way magic felt. Like electricity on her skin, running up her arms and spine and making her tongue tingle. She'd been practicing the Art her entire life, since she realized it wasn't faulty wiring that made sparks in her room at night. Still, every time she started a spell, she felt that same thrill, the  _rush_ that using magic always brought.

Kneeling by the sigil, painstakingly drawn on the cellar floor, the young magus rubbed her hands together, feeling for the power that lay waiting in her workspace. This was it. The result of weeks of planning – way more than she'd ever wanted to do. But when this worked, it would absolutely be worth it. Staff in-hand, she moved into the circle, feeling the power within her swell as the spell started to take shape. She could hear the quiet scritch-scritch of a cockroach skittering across the back wall, the drip of a faucet two stories up. Then she spoke, and it all faded away, replaced by the words of the spell as if the universe had leaned in to listen.

The words were old, the syllables tasting of dust and old men in silly hats. The components dripped from her hand, dropping onto the sigil once, twice, five times, each drop making the light of her runes brighter and stronger. She grinned, and said the last of the incantation that would bring her a hero. A warrior. A partner who would fight at her side in the greatest tournament any mage could imagine.

She said the final word, and the power rushed out of her, and out of the sigil stepped ...

Nothing.

The redheaded mage frowned, cocking her head as she waited for ... well, something more interesting that dust trickling from the ceiling. She said the final words of the incantation again. Maybe she'd pronounced something wrong. It shouldn't matter too much, but this was an old ritual and a finicky one.

She said the final word, and ... still nothing. No one appeared in a flash of light, or stepped out of a fiery portal to bow or kneel at her feet. Hell, she'd settle for a high-five at this point.

It didn't make any sense. A spell always worked. Always. It might not work the way you wanted it to, or it might drain you more than you expected, but it always worked.

Thumping her staff with the weighted head down on her workbench, she reached for her spellbook. Flipping the leather-bound cover open, she flicked through the tome until she came to the enchanted page that held the most basic information on the Holy Grail War. It wasn't much. Just the general location for the conflict, the identity of the overseer, and a list of which servant classes had already been summoned. Not who had done the summoning or which servant had been called. No statistics or parameters, just the name of the class with a little space next to it saying if they'd been summoned or not.

It was a formality more than anything else. Most of the masters selected by the Grail knew from the start which servant and class they would be able to summon. They had to. Performing a summoning only to find that the class you wanted was already taken would be a severe handicap. It might not be the end of the world – if a mage was using a piece of the Round Table and Arthur had already been summoned as the Saber class, they might get Galahad as a Lancer, Gawain as Rider, or Merlin as a Caster if they were  _really_  lucky– but if their artifact only had one legend, and if that hero could only work well in one particular role ...

Still, when she'd checked a week ago, less than half of the servants had been summoned. Lancer and Saber were the first to go, with Caster a close third. With four servants remaining, the chances that anyone had taken  _her_ class were slim to none.

Scanning the page, she ran through the list of classes. Saber and Lancer were right at the top. Their masters had finished their summonings early. That probably meant they were one of the big houses: the Schnee family, the Arcs, or the Einzbern clan. Or maybe someone from the Association, desperate to get their hero as soon as possible.

In the end, it didn't really matter. Caster was the next one summoned, followed by Archer, then Rider, and then ...

_No way._

There, sitting on the page, beneath Rider and above Berserker, sat the one Servant she hadn't expected to see.

Assassin.  _Her_ Assassin.

It was impossible. There were only seven masters. Only seven people chosen by the Grail. Seven people capable of summoning a servant. And all of them had the dormant Command Seals that named them as Masters for the Grail War. Hers were still there, on the back of her hand, faded and red against her skin. The Grail didn't pick extras – if a master died before they could summon a servant, then and  _only_  then did it select someone new.

It was impossible for her to still be a prospective master, still have the faded seals, and for all seven servants to already have been summoned. Slamming the book shut, Nora Valkyrie stared up at the ceiling. For the first time in her life, she was completely at a loss for words.

_What the hell is going on?_

* * *

Blake was halfway through unwrapping her lunch when the whispers started. At first, she just ignored them. She wasn't really into the mood to deal with whatever schoolyard drama was currently in the works. Not after last night, especially not with her stomach growling up a storm. By the time she did look up, half the class was trying to cram themselves in the corner of the room, staring out into the hallway. Following the direction of the others' stares, Blake looked out, and groaned.

There, barely ten feet from the rear door to the classroom, stood Weiss Schnee. Her hair was up, bound in her customary side-tail and trailing down her back. Her arms were folded, and the expression on her face was enough to send most people running. For a second, Blake considered just ignoring the whole thing. She'd been looking forward to lunch – she'd found the time to whip up a tuna melt sandwich that morning, and she had no intention of letting Weiss ruin it. Plus, if the Schnee princess really needed something, she could at least have the decency to come in and say it to her face.

She was just about to take a bite when the whispering picked up. Apparently people were starting to question why the white-haired girl from class 2-C hanging around outside their room. Blake sighed and set her lunch aside. Standing, she pushed past her classmates, walked down the empty section of the hall, and tapped the white-haired girl on the shoulder.

"You're bothering the other students."

Weiss whirled on the spot, eyes wide as she stared up at the dark-haired girl. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed, ashen hair flicking over her shoulder.

"At the moment? Missing lunch."

Weiss' eyes narrowed. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be wandering around in the open during the Grail War?"

"I'd hardly call  _this_ wandering," Blake quipped, waving aimlessly at the hallway. "And it's not like you're any more in hiding than I am."

"The difference is, I have Archer watching over the entire school in case another Master shows up," Weiss growled under her breath. "While Berserker is loitering outside the school, still in material form, much too far away in case anything happened."

"She's near enough," Blake said, grimacing. It was another side effect of whatever was wrong with Berserker. Not only couldn't she remember her name, dematerializing into her spiritual form was apparently out of the question. Which was getting to be a problem – for a Servant with such low parameters, she drew a lot of mana. And since she couldn't switch to her spiritual form, it meant Blake had to supply that mana twenty-four-seven.

All of which added up to an empty stomach and an increasing lack of patience. "Worse case, I can always use a command seal to summon her."

"What if another Master attacked? What if  _I_ attacked?"

"I can handle myself, Schnee," Blake snapped. "More importantly, why do you care? We're not allies and we're not friends. We'd barely spoken ten words to each other before last night."

Weiss' mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. "Fine," she said, jaw snapping shut. "We're finishing this  _tonight_."

"Should I meet you by the bike racks after school?" Blake drawled, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Or would you prefer something a little less juvenile?"

"Don't get cute. The field behind the school is far enough out of the way that we can fight without worrying about any bystanders."

"You're not at all afraid I might just booby trap the place and leave you to die?"

"Archer would warn me."

"Still."

Crossing her arms a little tighter across her chest, Weiss glared up at the dark-haired girl. "I'd rather not have to spend my time looking over my shoulder, waiting to get stabbed in the back. So, let's get this out of the way and agree that whoever loses is free to seek shelter with the Church for the remainder of the war."

"Those are pretty generous terms," Blake said, choosing her words carefully. "Especially considering most magi would kill each other outright, and avoid the risk of a servantless master allying with a masterless servant."

"I'm not going to kill anyone unless I have to," Weiss growled, glancing over Blake's shoulder at the students still trying to stare out of the classroom door. "Are you coming, or not?"

"... I'll see you tonight."

* * *

_Jaune_.

The blond boy jerked upright at the sound of his name. For a second, he thought about looking around, trying to figure out who had called him ... until he realized he'd heard the voice in his own head.  _Right. Servants can pull this kind of thing. Never gonna get used to that._

 _What is it?_  he thought, reminding himself not to move his lips as he trained his eyes on the blackboard. It was harder than he'd expected. He wasn't used to telepathy. Before this, he'd never had a familiar to give silent commands to. But it was a necessity, at least if he wanted to keep Rider hidden. As long as a Servant wasn't materialized, they were capable of communicating mentally with their Master. Over short distances, at least. It just wasn't a common skill – few mages were trusting enough to open their minds to potential rivals or enemies.

 _There are other servants nearby,_ Pyrrha's said, his sense of her mind tinged with bronze and ... some scent he couldn't name.

_It's probably Weiss. The Schnees have always fought in the Grail Wars. If Winter was able to summon you, it's an easy bet Weiss found a way to pull it off._

_Winter's sister?_  Achilles asked, her voice tinted with what Jaune thought was concern.  _Is that going to be a problem?_

 _Maybe,_  he grimaced, struggling to let Rider hear his answer and nothing else. That was the problem with any kind of telepathy – you always ran the risk of telling the other person more than you really wanted them to know.

 _Do you know the name of the other Master as well?_  she asked. Her mind gave off a sense of height, of being a decent ways off the ground, staring down over the school grounds.

 _The other one?_ She had to be on the roof. It was a good idea, even sitting in his chair and feeling her hanging off the roof gave him vertigo.

_I sense two servants in the area – one on the outskirts of school grounds, and one patrolling around near the second floor._

Jaune nodded slowly. Weiss' classroom was on the second floor. It wasn't hard to guess that her servant was the one nearby. But the one outside school grounds ...

They were either hunting for Weiss, or hunting for him. Either way, it was a problem. He'd hoped they wouldn't attract any other Masters for at least a few days. Enough time for him to make a real plan for dealing with the others.

 _Okay,_  he thought.  _We wait after school lets out. I'll pretend to leave and double back, while you watch the rest of the students when they leave. With any luck, we might get some idea of who the other Master is._

* * *

It was dark by the time all the other students had gone home. No one wanted to stay late with the weekend coming up, and by the time the clock struck seven, the place was abandoned.

The field behind the school was the one exception. Four women waited on the short grass, facing each other through the gloom. Little spirals of mist came from their mouths when they breathed, the cold air already biting into the two magi. Weiss stood by the baseball diamond, her foot tapping impatiently as she pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. Blake didn't seem to mind it as much, and the two Servants didn't barely noticed it at all. The street clothes Blake had loaned Berserker were already replaced by her gold-washed scale mail, and Archer already held her nodachi by her side.

"If we're making this an honorable duel," the blonde said, stretching her arms over her head. "I suppose I should tell you my name."

Archer's mask dipped for a second. "Can't tell you mine."

"Too well-known?" Berserker asked, her voice light. "Afraid I'll figure out your weaknesses too easily?"

"Can't remember it. I took a bump on the head mid-summon."

Berserker's mouth split in a wide, genuine grin as she laughed. "You've got no name, and I have so many, I can't remember which one is right." Pulling the shield from her back, Berserker strapped it to her arm, tossing her golden curls back behind her shoulders. "Guess we're a matched set."

"I suppose so," Archer said, her voice quiet.

"Well, for lack of anything better, you can call me Kara."

Archer nodded slowly, the voice behind her mask sounding a little tighter. "It was nice seeing you, Kara."

"Same to you."

Both servants moved without warning, darting towards the other, weapons at the ready. The red-bladed sword struck the blonde's shield in a scatter of sparks, glancing off to the side as Berserker pressed forward. Archer ducked low as the banded shield swung through the space where her head had been seconds before, stepping to the side before slashing in a flurry of blows that put the blonde Viking on the defensive.

Blake stood by, eyes trained not on the battle in front of her, but the smaller girl standing on the other side of the field. There was little she could to help Berserker directly, short of healing any wound she received. But Weiss ... she could do something about Weiss.

While most of the Servants summoned for the Grail War were interested in a fair fight – most were heroes, after all – the same could rarely be said for their masters. Blake had read the accounts of previous Grail Wars, poured over Adam's notes from the last one, and there were always mages who chose to eliminate the competition in a more ... direct way. That was even the Assassin class' specialty, eliminating the enemy Masters instead of their Servants. There was nothing stopping other mages from doing the same. Many even felt it was necessary – to make sure an opponent was truly out of the Grail War for good. According to Adam's instructions, it was also her best chance to win the Grail War outright.

One hand absently stroked the side of her book bag, feeling the barrel of the heavily modified nine millimeter hidden inside the inner lining. It would take her thirteen seconds to rip into the bag, two to pull the weapon out, and less than one to aim and pull the trigger. Sixteen seconds in total. Thirty, if she wanted to make Adam's sword materialize instead. In under half a minute, Weiss Schnee could be out of the Grail War for good.

Assuming the white-haired girl didn't already expect an attack. Assuming Archer didn't see the shots coming and stop her. Adam's training had prepared her specifically to take on other mages, but those strategies worked best when the mage didn't see you coming. Unsurprisingly, most mages expected threats against them to come from magic, from rivals and enemies they saw as their equals. Or at least not the pathetic, mundane weapons they looked down upon.

Weiss hadn't really seen her fight. She wouldn't expect the attack to come from a pistol, rather than a quick evocation. Any defenses she had probably wouldn't be designed for conventional arms fire.

Blake bit her lip as one of Archer's cuts landed, slicing into Berserker's arm, only for the blonde to slam the shield into the red-clad servant's chest hard enough to send her flying. It was better to wait. Without their noble phantasms, the two servants looked like they were fairly evenly matched. In the end, Blake might not even need to use her guns. Better to hold off on using them until she did.

Even if the Schnee girl tried the same tactics, Blake was no slouch when it came to her power. She wasn't an academy-trained mage, but she wouldn't need her weapons to hold Weiss off if she decided to make this personal. They'd just make it go a lot faster.

"Rider!"

Blake whirled to look at whoever had shouted, eyes wide as a red-haired woman in bronze armor appeared out of thin air, charging for the two Servants currently dueling on the field. A young man stood by the equipment shed, a messy mop of blond hair falling into his eyes as he ran towards Weiss, his mouth already forming the words for some sort of incantation.

Archer was mid-swing when the bronze Servant slammed into Berserker's side. Blindsided, the blonde staggered backwards, getting her shield up just in time to block a downward swing from Rider's sword. Berserker tried to knock the blade aside, only to step back as Rider attacked with her shield as well, whirling as one attack after another slammed against Berserker's defenses.

"Weiss, I've got this!" he cried, finishing the spell and tossing a ball of flame in Blake's direction.

Blake swore under her breath and dodged to the side, letting the little blast of flame fizzle out on the grass. She should have seen this coming. No Schnee would walk into a fight without some sort of ace in the hole, some way to balance the odds in their favor. She should have known Weiss would bring some stooge to back her up.

Her most general shield spell took ten words to say. Lips already moving, she slipped a hand inside her bag. Even if it didn't work, even if it just served as a distraction, attacking the boy might give Berserker enough time to turn the tables on this new Servant, maybe enough time to get them both out of there. It took thirteen seconds to rip the bag's lining open, two to pull the weapon out, and less than one to aim and pull the trigger.

The blond boy's eyes went wide as Blake fired, the semi-automatic sending round after round at the Weiss' assistant. He managed to raise a shield of his own in time, flinching back as the first round shattered against it. It held, barely, flickering out as the last round slammed into it. Blake grit her teeth and darted to the side, free hand reaching back into the bag's false lining, grabbing for a new magazine ...

Only to watch as a blast of ice slammed into the boy from the side, blasting him off his feet.

Whirling to find the source of the blast, Blake turned, mouth open slightly as Weiss Schnee stepped towards the fallen boy. With a snap of her fingers, a long, thin rapier materialized in her hand, the polished metal glinting in the moonlight. Glowing runes ran along the blade, leaving trails in the darkness as she whipping it up in front of her.

"Archer!" Weiss called, the point of her rapier aimed directly for Jaune's heart. "Change of plans. Forget Berserker. Take out the redhead first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a fast update. Please leave a comment if you can - it's always nice to hear how people think a story is going.


	8. Is Also My Enemy

"With pleasure," Archer growled, before slamming her sword back into its sheath. With one smooth motion, she drew, and one of her blades hurtled through the air at the bronze-armored woman.

Rider leapt to the side as she parried, abandoning her assault on Berserker to focus on the Servant attacking from behind. It was a mistake – Berserker was at her side in an instant, steel clanging against bronze as the larger woman slammed her shield into Rider's. The redheaded servant staggered back, catching her footing just in time to dodge beneath another flying blade. Whirling on her feet, Rider danced backwards, sword and shield whipping back and forth as both Archer and Berserker hammered her defenses.

"What are you  _doing_ , Weiss?" Jaune shrieked, staring wide-eyed at the female magus.

Weiss ignored him, keeping her sword levelled at his chest while she looked at Blake from the corner of her eye. "What's your answer? Temporary truce until Rider's out of the running?"

Blake just stared at the other girl. "Someone shows up to help you and the first thing you do is turn on him?"

"The enemy of my enemy is also my enemy," Weiss recited grimly, mouth pressed in a tight, angry line. "Frankly, I trust your abilities far more than his."

The air whistled as Rider swung for Berserker's neck, only for the blonde servant to knock the blow aside with her bracers. Leaping forward, the Norse hero brought her shield down behind the hoplite's, hooking the edges together and yanking back. Pulled off-balance, Rider just managed to dodge as Archer cleaved down with both hands. Going with the momentum, she managed to break away from the shield-lock, looking up just in time to see a red-eyed Berserker slam a gloved fist right into her nose.

 _Gift horses,_  Blake reminded herself, racking the slide of her pistol. "... deal."

She could hear the blonde boy gulp, even over the ringing of steel on bronze behind her. Clawing against the ground, he scrambled to his feet, lips already forming the words to another incantation.

Holding out her hand, Blake whispered the five syllables she needed to call her mentor's sword. With a slight hiss, the air displaced, and the blade fell into her waiting palm.

Refusing to waste so much as a second, she fired, sending Adam's sword flying through the air hilt-first and shattering the feeble shield Jaune barely managed to cast in time. He made it halfway through another spell before another blast of ice slammed him backward, tumbling head over heels towards the fenced-off edge of the field.

"Jaune!" Rider cried, trying to make a break for her master. She made it a foot before Berserker moved in front of her, eyes glinting with bloodlust as she swung punch after punch at the Greek hero.

Catching Berserker's eye, Archer fired another shot at Rider, then turned, whipping out a second blade and sending it flying at the blonde servant.

With the grace of a professional, Rider cut the first red blade out of the air, leaving the crimson shards to scatter and dissolve as the magic binding it together faded. Seeing the second shot, Rider stepped aside to let the blade hit its mark. If Archer wanted to try to take Berserker out at the same time, she wasn't about to stop her. Not if it gave her a chance to get between the two other mages and Jaune.

Teeth bared in a feral snarl, Berserker swung her shield and knocked the second blade aside, the shot ricocheting off into the night...

And catching Rider in her unarmored thigh.

* * *

Jaune's eyes flew to the redheaded Servant as she fell to one knee with a quiet grunt of pain.

This wasn't right. This wasn't the plan. Weiss was supposed to realize the advantage of teaming up against an opponent. They were supposed to take out Berserker together, as a team, fighting side-by side.

Instead, his side ached where Weiss' ice had struck him, sending him flying into the wire fence ringing the field. Holding onto the fence, he pulled himself to his knees, watching as the two other Servants hammered away at Rider.

There was no way to win this.

Swearing, Jaune slammed his fist into the dirt. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Weiss was supposed to ...

_Dammit._

"Rider!" he called, struggling to find his footing as Weiss sent another blast of ice hurtling towards him.

The Greek warrior caught his eye. Dodging another of Archer's downward cuts, she spun away, putting both enemy Servants behind her as she crouched in a runner's stance.

" _Dromeus Cometes!_ "

Mana surged around her as she called on her Noble Phantasm, giving her a golden glow that clung to her armor. Heedless of the danger, Berserker leapt into the air, using gravity to throw more force behind the blow as she swung her the reinforced edge of her shield down at the back of Rider's neck. The hoplite tensed for the blow-

And vanished.

Berserker's shield hit the dirt as Rider flew forward, legs pumping too fast for Jaune's eyes to follow. In an instant, she was on him, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him onto her shoulders. Slowing just long enough to dodge the round fired from Blake's scabbard, she turned and bolted from the field, carrying her master off towards the twinkling lights of the city.

With a blood-curdling roar, Berserker yanked the shield from her arm, gripping it with the other hand. Teeth bared, she spun to the side, and threw.

The shield flew straight and true, slamming into Rider's back before bouncing up into the air. The red head staggered forward, barely keeping ahold of Jaune, and caught herself with one hand. Sparing one measured look behind her at the two Servants, her aura pulsed, and she vanished in a cloud of dust.

Blake cursed as their surprise guest beat a hasty retreat, the barrel of her weapon still pointed at the place Rider had been standing. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, the way it always did in combat.

Weapon at the ready, she slowly turned to Weiss, watching as the white-haired mage walked across the field to join her red-clad servant. Berserker was still standing in place, the red fading from her eyes as she moved to put herself between Blake and the others.

"Back to our duel then," Blake said quietly, fingers tensing around the scabbard. If she could manage to get off a shot, even if Archer dodged it, it might give Berserker enough time to-

"No." Weiss shook her head. "I meant what I said. If you're willing, I'd be happy with a temporary truce. At least until Rider is gone."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why not accept his help?" It didn't make any sense. Berserker had been completely on the defensive when Rider showed up. Weiss could have easily used the chance to have Archer eliminate either her or Jaune, or at least try to threaten them into giving up their command seals. But giving away that chance ... she just couldn't understand it.

Weiss was still for a moment, before whispering a few words and letting her rapier fade from her hand. "I don't like underhanded tactics, Belladonna," she said, dusting her hands before finally meeting Blake's gaze.

"He interfered in a perfectly fair fight. He had it coming."

* * *

"What the hell is wrong with her?" Jaune barely managed to keep from screaming.

They'd almost made it to the city before Pyrrha stopped, coming to a halt in an abandoned park. Collapsing into one of the molded plastic benches, Jaune put his face in his hands and groaned.

He'd failed. Again. He'd done everything right, planned everything down to the last detail, figured out the best way to defeat the enemy Master who had tracked him and Weiss down. They'd waited until just the right moment, right when there was no chance Berserker could escape. It would have worked!

And Weiss had betrayed him.

"Winter's sister?" Rider asked, her voice quiet.

Looking up, Jaune watched as the Servant sat down beside him, armor clinking as she moved.

He nodded, staring down at his knees. "We came there to help her. I  _said_  we were there to help her. Why would she ..." he trailed off, hands balled into fists. It  _should_  have worked.

"Jaune, why did you want me to protect her?"

"My grandfather made a deal with their father when I was three. She was eight. The Arcs and the Schnee were old ... I'm not sure you'd call them friends, but they weren't on bad terms. Our ancestors created this ritual, together with the Einzberns. Whatever our disagreements, the Schnee family didn't want to see our magics just fade away into nothing."

"My entire life I've been told that I have to marry Winter," he sighed. "That it's my obligation to follow through on our parents' agreement."

"And you don't want to?"

"Would you?" he asked, looking up at the bronze-clad servant. "She's  _always_  in a foul, awful mood, lashing out at anyone within reach. I can't remember ever seeing her smile, and whenever I try anything – a spell, a ritual, hell, even a sport – she points out every little thing I'm doing wrong, and makes it a point to tell me why even bothering to try is a complete waste of time."

"The worst part is," he mumbled, dreading the idea of explaining how he'd managed to lose to her sister. "She's usually right."

"Then don't marry her."

He gave a weak, hopeless sort of laugh. "If I want to save my family's magic, I don't have a lot of options." Growing up, he'd hoped one of his sisters might turn out to be a late bloomer. That puberty or hormone shifts might bring out a latent talent for the art. It happened sometimes – from what he'd read at least. One of the most powerful mages in the Association hadn't cast a spell until he was sixteen.

Jaune hadn't been so lucky.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring blankly at the gravel path. "I thought about suggesting an alliance to one of the mages in London, out of the Mages' Association, but our magic's not strong enough anymore to interest one of the major families. I even tried to apply for training at the Clocktower academy, just in case, but I failed the practical exam."

"My only choices are Winter or Weiss. And whatever anyone says about Weiss, at least she's ... she's not cruel. Prickly, sure, but she doesn't belittle people just because she can. She puts on a hard face, but she's actually pretty kind when she thinks no one's watching."

"Plus, she's gorgeous and I  _really_  do like her. I'd give anything for her dad to have sent Weiss and not Winter. I just ... I need to make her understand how I really feel about her. If I can just do that, I  _know_  she'll change her mind about me. And if I can win the Holy Grail ..." Heat rose in his face. It was a dumb, stupid, romantic idea. "Well, legendary magical artifacts probably go a long way to impressing a girl."

His voice trailed off as he ran out of things to say. Things that he'd never said to anyone, ever. It was as if something had broken the dam he always kept up around Winter, letting all the frustration, the humiliation, the desperate anger, come pouring out.

He looked up as a hand rested on his shoulder. Achillea was staring back at him, compassion in her eyes, mouth pressed in a small, sympathetic smile.

"Jaune, there was a woman I knew once." She spoke slowly, weighing each word before she spoke. "Penthesilea. She was an Amazon, and just watching her in battle ... she moved and fought with a grace I could only envy. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and a warrior I simply  _had_ to fight."

"You fell for her."

"A  _stone_  would have fallen for Penthesilea."

"What happened?" Jaune said, his voice soft. He knew the story, but ... well, Achilles had been a _man_ in those tales. Even if that was the only thing they'd gotten wrong, he could think of three or four different versions off the top of his head, and ten-to-one, none of them were the complete truth.

A faraway look came into Rider's eyes. "We dueled. I was so enamored with her that I found myself paying attention to the way she moved and the toss of her hair, not the tip of her spear."

"And?"

"We were at war, and she was the enemy." Achillea sighed, and rubbed her hand across her eyes. "I put aside my passions and killed her, just as she would have done to me. It was only later that I learned she had come to the battlefield looking to die, wanting to atone for causing the death of her friend."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It couldn't have ended any other way." She sighed and leaned back against the bench. "Jaune, that girl has her own reasons to joining this war. If it comes down to it and you have to choose, which matters more? Her life, or winning the Grail?

"You're saying we have to kill her?" Jaune swallowed. If it came down to it, if he had absolutely  _no_  choice ...

"That's not ... what I am trying to tell you, is that we can be so consumed with our passions, our dreams, that we fail to see how they put us in harm's way." Pushing off the bench, she stood, leather and bronze creaking. Turning to face him, she held out her hand and pulled him to his feet.

"I understand that you care for this girl, but at least for now, she is an enemy. She has her own wish for the Grail, and even if she  _had_  accepted your help, only one of you can have your wish granted. Forget that, and we are both going to end up dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was fun. So far these have been pretty easy to bang out in the space of a couple days. Anyway, please take the time to leave a comment if you can - it always makes my day to see 'em.


	9. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torchwick meets Caster's accomplice, and Weiss and Blake have a short chat while leaving the school.

"Well she _definitely_ looks stable," Roman drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stepped into the abandoned warehouse. Well ... at least it was abandoned _now._ Two piles of ash sat just inside the doors, right where guards would normally have their posts. There wasn't much doubt what those piles had been, once upon a time – Roman was pretty sure he could see a tooth.

But it wasn't the cremated remains that grabbed his attention. Or the slit hem and shapely thighs of the woman standing next to him. It was the young woman seated in the corner.

She was short and young, somewhere in her mid-twenties at the latest. Mismatched eyes sat beneath mismatched bangs, and every time she blinked, the color changed. First one grey, one brown, then both grey, then one pink and one brown. At least the kaleidoscope eyes matched her hair - half of it was bubblegum pink, the rest a deep chocolate brown.

While that was disturbing enough, it was the blade she carried that caught Roman's attention. It was short and slim, made to stab and pierce and slip between a set of ribs, and currently covered in blood.

"Lemme guess. She's the witch, so you're the wannabe Jack-the-Ripper?"

The young woman met his eyes. She held them, unblinking, her head cocked to the left. Then she grinned, raised the blood-soaked blade to her lips, and ran her tongue down the flat of the blade.

"Yeah," Roman rolled his eyes, fingers drumming on his cane. "A paragon of sanity."

"I wouldn't go that far," the black-clad woman said, her voice a low, menacing purr. "Unstable, yes. Violent, absolutely. But she's focused enough to set to a task, so long as you keep it simple."

Roman sighed and followed the witch deeper into the room. Taking a seat on one of the shorter crates, he watched as ... he really needed a better name for this woman than 'Caster.' He watched as the witch took the blade from the small woman's hands. Without a second look, she ran her fingers down the sword, gathering the blood into her hand before kneeling down and beginning to draw intricate circles on the concrete floor.

"So she must be one of these ... 'Servants' you keep talking about," Roman asked, paying only half attention to the darker woman. "Just like you?"

"Hardly," Caster said, finishing the circle and using the blood to write something in a blocky script that looked like runes. "She's a failed experiment. When the priest's command seals stopped me from killing him, I tried to get around the problem by summoning a Servant of my own. Assassin wasn't summoned yet, so I called for this one in its place."

"And?"

"And what?" Caster spared him a glance before going back to her work. "She's a failure. An unbalanced mix of historical fact and legend, barely capable of holding itself together. Not like the stable incarnations the Holy Grail produces."

"Right. The 'Grail.'" Roman drawled. Well, if she was going to insist on this 'Holy Grail' nonsense and her little magic act, he might as well play along. "That why she hasn't said a word yet?"

A small smile flickered across the witch's mouth. "Go ahead, Assassin. We shouldn't leave him wondering."

The smaller woman came to her feet with one smooth motion. Smiling sweetly, the petite little figure cocked her finger at Roman, beckoning him forward. With a long-suffering sigh, Torchwick stood and walked over to the little lady. Then she opened her mouth.

Roman was incredibly glad that he never ate before a heist. As it was, he just barely managed to keep his stomach from spewing bile when he looked into that dark ... he couldn't call it a throat. The inside of Assassin's mouth was a mass of scars – angry violent lines that crisscrossed the inside of her cheeks, surrounding a short stubby thing that _might_ have been part of a tongue. Burn marks covered what scar tissue didn't, off-white and sickly-looking.

Torchwick's business wasn't what anyone would call a conventional one. Or a particularly safe one. There was always the risk of a client not being 'satisfied' with a thief's efforts. Or taking offense if a job didn't turn out the way he or she wanted. Roman had seen the effects of torture before, seen the scars, the little puckers from electrodes and the dark red dots of needles. If he was a betting man – and he was, when he knew it was fixed in his favor – he would have bet a very large sum that someone had shoved a burning coal into this woman's mouth. _After_ they'd chopped off her tongue.

"Well," he sighed, absent-mindedly swinging his cane by his side. "Someone definitely did _not_ like you."

* * *

"You're following me."

"Of course I am." Weiss glared over at the black-haired woman, her shorter legs pumping to keep up. Blake seemed determined to get away from the school as fast as possible – _which was fine –_ but it meant Weiss had to take two steps for every one of hers.

Apart from them, and the tall figures keeping pace behind the two girls, the street was completely deserted. The late hour, and the lack of other people meant each step echoed as Weiss' school shoes clattered against the concrete, a fast little click-clack as she tried to keep up with the taller girl.

"We can't just work together against an enemy Master and go our separate ways." She forced herself to breathe normally. The spells she had cast earlier already had her a little out of breath, but there was no way she was going to show any signs of weakness. Not now. "We need to make a plan, decide what our next move will be."

Blake came to a halt, her spine ram-rod straight as she turned. She looked over her shoulder, her golden eyes locked on Weiss, intense and piercing.

"Why did you want a truce?"

"I told you," Weiss said, fighting the urge to pant. "To take out Rider."

Blake snorted. "Her Master could barely keep a shield spell running. Long as someone kept the redhead distracted, either of us would wipe the floor with him." Turning all the way around, Blake narrowed her eyes, leaning forward just enough to make Weiss very aware of the difference in their heights. "So, why exactly do you need _me_?"

It took Weiss a second to answer – a second she bought by making a show of fixing her hair.

"Because this isn't about him," she said, once she was sure her voice wouldn't waver. "You're right. I know him. In a fair fight, he wouldn't stand a chance against me. Or you. He doesn't have the talent to summon a Servant on his own. Or provide enough mana to keep her stable."

"... you think someone's helping him."

"I _know_ someone else is helping him," Weiss shot back. "Which means that I'm not just facing a Servant and an incompetent mage. I also have to deal with whoever is smart enough to use him as a decoy. And I'd rather have someone on my side for when Rider's _real_ Master shows up."

Blake just looked at her for a second, narrowed eyes flicking back and forth as she stared into Weiss' face. Finally, she sighed and pulled away, turning back to the road.

"Any idea who that is?" she asked softly as Weiss fell into step beside her.

"... it could be anyone," Weiss said after a moment. To be fair, it wasn't _technically_ a lie. It _could_ hypothetically be anyone, even if she _did_ have a damn good guess who it was. "The Arcs are an old family, even if their magic is dying out. They probably have a few favors they can cash in."

Blake huffed and kept moving, slipping down side streets until she came to the edge of the residential district. They walked in silence for a while, passing housing developments and apartments, Archer and Berserker leaping up onto the rooftops when a late night drunk stumbled out onto the street.

Every so often, Weiss stole a glance over at the other Master. Long black tresses flowed behind her, bouncing with every other step she took. She moved like a woman on a mission, not tense or stiff, but there was something about the way she carried herself. Relaxed, but ready. Yellow-gold eyes stayed locked on the road ahead of them, darting back and forth as she scanned the street for any more potential attackers. Gold eyes that ...

Weiss swallowed and looked back at the road. _This isn't the time._

"I don't suppose you have any idea who Rider is," she hissed, needing something to break the silence.

"She's Greek, obviously," the dark-haired girl said, still looking ahead. "An Amazon?"

"Maybe. But the only Amazon I know off the top of my head is Hippolyta."

"I didn't see a girdle," Blake said, her voice dry. "Maybe he got lucky and summoned Diana Prince."

"Don't get cute," Weiss snapped, glaring up at the taller girl. "Unless we figure out who Rider actually is, her Noble Phantasms might turn out to be more than Archer or Berserker can handle. _Especially_ when neither of them remembers who they are."

"And there's still Assassin to deal with," Blake growled. "Don't suppose you've seen Caster, Lancer, or Saber yet."

"Saber is with the Einzbern clan. I don't know who they sent, but that was the rumor going around."

The dark-haired woman gave a quiet hum, and kept walking, lost in her thoughts until they finally stopped in front of the gated entrance to her home. A long wall edged with stone ran the length of the property, ending in an old gatehouse in a local, eastern style. It took Blake a few seconds to find the key and slide it into the lock, heaving until the gate door slid open.

She stepped into the yard, Berserker right behind her, only to turn and find Weiss tapping her foot on the other side of the gate.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" the shorter girl said, scowling.

"... excuse me?"

Weiss gave an exasperated little sigh. "Splitting up gives Rider, or Assassin, or whoever else two isolated targets. If we stay together, we make it that much more difficult for them to get to us."

Blake nodded, but Weiss could tell she still didn't quite understand. "That's why we walked back together, but ..."

" _And_ all we did was agree that Rider has someone else pulling her strings. That's hardly a plan," she snapped. "We need a real strategy, and your place is as good as any."

"So _why_ exactly do I need to invite you in?"

Weiss rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. _Seriously_ , she thought, _what about this is hard to understand?_

"Because I'm staying here, you dolt."

* * *

"Nice shot back there." Berserker said, glancing over the edge of the roof at the two young women walked into the house, bickering quietly. "How'd you know I'd deflect it?"

Archer looked over at her ... well, Berserker was fairly sure she did. It was hard to tell with the white and red mask hanging down over her face. "Lucky guess."

Berserker laughed. The chances of that happening were slim to none at best – there was no way Archer could have known that she would react in exactly that way, that the blonde wouldn't have taken it as just another attack against her. "Hey, I know this'll sound weird, but do I know you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, it's just ..." the blonde trailed off, keeping one ear open for the sound of the two girls talking in the house below. "I can't shake the feeling I've fought with you before. When you used that fake-out on Rider, I _knew_ what you were doing. Even through the haze, I knew to ricochet that shot back at her."

"You have good instincts."

"Yeah," Berserker nodded, a wry smile cutting across her mouth. "But this isn't the same. We've fought beside each other before, haven't we?"

Archer stared at Berserker for a moment before shaking her head. "No. I'd remember."

Berserker sighed from frustration and nodded. It made sense. She might not know her name, or which one of them she'd been summoned as, but the blonde still had her memories. Most of them anyway. _Maybe_ she wouldn't remember the red-clad servant right off the bat, but after fighting together ... she was definitely familiar. She _should_ know who Archer was. Then again, no one from her home had ever dressed like _that._

Berserker took her eyes off the yard for a moment, and looked over at the Schnee Servant. She just couldn't shake the feeling that she knew this woman. Plus ... there was an odd look to the eyes behind that mask. Something ... off.

The dark-haired Servant cleared her throat. "It's ..." she started, trailing off as she stared out at the surrounding houses.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing." Archer shook her head, a quiet chuckle coming from behind her mask. "Maybe we knew each other in another life."

"Maybe," Berserker nodded, staring at the city. "My people had a few legends about that sort of thing. They said that souls can sometimes be born again, given new life, a new chance to ... not fuck up as badly."

"And you believe that too?"

The blonde warrior let out a short little laugh, the sound completely devoid of humor. "Never really had much choice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. Anyway, please leave a review if you can - it always makes my day to see 'em, and I like to hear what people thought.


	10. Casualties of War

She hated flying. No, hate wasn't a strong enough word. Detested? Despised?

Loathed. She loathed flying.

Raising the glass to her lips, the blonde magus took a sip of the (probably boxed) wine that the stewardess had brought her. It wasn't the travel itself that bothered her. She wasn't any more worried about the plane than she would be a car, or any other form of mechanical transportation. Statistically, she was actually safer within the stale confines of the airplane than she would be in regular traffic. That said ...

It was the hassle. The sheer amount of pointless, worthless minutia. The barely competent security. The long waits designed to get you to patronize their airport shops. The-

She sighed, adjusted her glasses, and leaned back into the padded airline seat. Better to focus on relaxing than let the irritation eat away at her.

At least the first-class seat made the best of the bad situation. That, and the wine the flight attendants kept bringing her. By the second glass, the urge to strangle everyone within reach had faded somewhat. By the third, she even felt like she might be able to sleep.

 _Which I should be doing_ , she reminded herself, closing her eyes for the ninth time and trying to focus on the constant, cyclical drone of the engines. She needed her rest. Especially knowing what waited for her the moment she stepped off the plane.

"Well, this is new."

Her chair shifted as someone thumped down heavily into the seat beside her. She turned and found a young man sitting beside her, messy blonde hair falling into his eyes as he played with the seat-back table. Closing her eyes, she took a breath, and tried to suppress the steadily growing urge to throttle him.

 _What part of 'stay out of sight' do you not understand?_ she asked silently, calling on the connection between herself and the unruly Servant.

"Hey, I did what you asked," the blonde man-child said, waving at the button-down that still showed off half his chest. "I'm wearing a shirt. See?"

_I'm not going to like the answer, but where did you get that?_

"From the guy-"

_Lancer._

... _fine._ The young man held up his hands in surrender. Looking put-upon, he closed his mouth. _From the guy who had this seat._

A long-suffering sigh escaped the mage's lips. _And where is he now?_

_In the bathroom. Sleeping. I just popped back outside the door._

The pounding was already starting to build in her head. With her luck, soon she'd have a nice, deep-set migraine from dealing with this idiot.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she ran through the long and very detailed checklist of everything that could go wrong if anyone noticed that the plane had one extra passenger. Especially if the stowaway mysteriously vanished halfway through the flight – she very much doubted that Lancer would behave and sit still if an air marshal arrested him.

_You attacked a man, on a plane, and then materialized in front of potential witnesses._

_Come on, Glynda,_ he thought back, rolling his eyes. _Don't get paranoid. Nobody saw anything._

 _No one saw anything yet,_ she corrected sternly. _And if you'd stick to spiritual form, it will stay that way._

 _But it's bor-_ he started, cutting off when Glynda turned, her eyes glaring daggers into the young man.

_Lancer, you are going to dematerialize in spiritual form. You are going to go to the dark little pathway between the bathrooms when you do it and you are going to pray no one sees you. End of discussion. Because if I hear one whisper of a blond shirtless man with a tail running around the airplane, I'll use a Command Seal. You'll not only stay in spiritual form the entire flight, I'll make you spend it in the bottom of the sewage tank._

Lancer's eyes went wide. _You wouldn't._

 _Right now, I strongly suggest not testing me._ Glynda locked her gaze with the young man's, raising one eyebrow as she waited for his answer. Finally, he swallowed, unbuckled the seatbelt, and made his way back down the aisle.

Closing her eyes and rubbing at her forehead, Glynda leaned back in her seat and stared up at the corrugated plastic ceiling. Why? Why in God's name was she saddled with what had to be to most annoying servant ever summoned for the Holy Grail War?

* * *

Weiss stood on the still-damp grass, shivering beneath her coat as she stared at the wreckage. Emergency crews were still crawling over the site. Firefighters and arson investigators prowled through the burnt-out doors, while medical examiners lined the bodies side-by-side, zipped inside the black body bags until one of the coroners could get them back to the morgue. The rest of the crowd – church-goers, reporters, and people who had just happened to walk by – stood behind the police line, watching while curiosity, fear, and confusion flickered across their faces. Well, except for the reporters. They all had the same expression, some kind of grim determined mask atop emotions varying from excitement to exhaustion.

The heiress sighed and let go of the spell. Slowly, her vision returned to normal, the ruins and the crowd shrinking into the distance, down past the bottom of the hill. Shuddering, Weiss pulled her coat tighter around her – anyone's guess if it was from the wind or what she'd just seen.

Worst part, there was nothing she could do about it. The damage was done – if she'd gotten there during the fire itself, she might have been able to do _something_ , either put it out or at least slow it down. But now, now all she could do was try not to think about it while she waited for Blake to trudge her way back up the hill.

Tucking her hands into the sleeves of her coat, Weiss glanced down the path and sat on the slim park bench that looked out over the crest of the hill, trying desperately to think of what she was going to say when the dark-haired woman finally did make her way back.

She wasn't sure. She knew she had to say something. Do _something._ Something to fix the awkward silence that had grown between them.

It didn't help that the night before had been ... weird.

Weiss knew it made perfect sense for her to stay at Blake's place, for the time being at least. It was a sound tactical move. Having both Archer and Berserker on guard meant none of the other Masters would be able to ambush them. It kept them safe. If they were going to have any hope of working together, they needed to get used to each other, and the best way to do that was to jump in feet-first.

That still hadn't made it any easier. Blake had invited her in easily enough, but after a few minutes of discussion – most of it their attempts to figure out what Rider's next move might be – they'd fallen into a long, heavy silence. Blake seemed fine with it, but it grated on Weiss' nerves. At least until Blake stood, ushered her down the hall to the guest bedroom, and then vanished, Archer hot on her heels.

 _To be fair_ , she thought, fiddling with a coat button, _Blake's probably just not used to having houseguests. Plus, if things had gone differently, you two might be fighting each other right now. Up until a few days ago, the two of you were just people who went to the same school, not fellow mages in the middle of a ..._

 _No. No, she knew who I was. Who my family was. She_ knew _I was a mage. Which means it isn't her needing to reconcile between me as her schoolmate and me as a mage. Which means ... what?_

She sighed and rubbed her hands together, trying to get a little warmth. The morning hadn't been much better. They'd barely sat down to cold cereal and milk when the special report had splashed across the two-generation-old TV nestled in the corner of the living/dining room.

Weiss shuddered again and tried to put the images out of her mind. Seeing the burned ruins on the screen had been bad enough. Seeing them up close – and the magic enhancement to her sight meant it had been _very_ close – was much worse.

This was the third church to burn in the last two days. Fortunately, the first one burnt down late at night – the only casualties were a priest and his assistant, found dead outside the churchyard crypt. The fire itself had died down before anyone even arrived to unlock the doors. The second one ... well, the second and the third hadn't been so lucky. Which was why Blake had gone down for a closer look.

The church at the bottom of the hill had gone up in flames in the middle of some religious service. It wasn't mass – Weiss took some solace in that – but there had still been over forty people inside when it came down. She held out hope that some of them made it. Weiss had counted at least thirty body bags being loaded into the coroners' vans, which left at least ten or so survivors, assuming that the TV newscaster had gotten his numbers right.

Something snapped, and Weiss turned to find Blake and Berserker coming back over the crest of the hill. Both were dressed in casual clothes – a dark jacket and pants for Blake and a too-tight shirt and jeans beneath a leather jacket for Berserker. The pants and shirt looked like they'd make for comfortably baggy fit on Blake, but on Berserker's larger frame, they were already straining at the seams. The jacket wasn't much better, but at least it didn't seem about to rip itself to shreds.

Silently, the other girl made her way over to the bench, nodding her head over at Weiss before walking to the edge of the path and looking down at the wreckage. She didn't speak, just stared with a far-off look down at the church, the wind teasing her long black hair.

Patience had never been Weiss' strong suit. "So?" she asked after a few seconds, one hand drumming on her arm. "What did you find?"

Blake tore herself away from the sight, slowly turning back to Weiss. "I overheard the coroners talking. Most of the dead were pretty badly burned."

"Fascinating," the heiress said, her voice dry. "You're telling me people inside a fire were burnt? Will wonders never cease."

"Except none of them died from it," Blake snapped. "Roughly half died from the fire, but there's no sign that any of them actually inhaled any smoke."

"... you're telling me they burned to death _before_ the building lit up?"

"Seems so." Blake nodded and looked down at the far end of the bench. Then after a second, she seemed to think better of it, moving over to stand by Berserker before pacing back and forth on the grass. "The coroner thinks they died of fluid loss or organ failure."

"And the other half?"

"They drowned."

Weiss blinked, the sheer ridiculousness making her head ache. "... they drowned _inside_ a burning building?"

"Even with the heat, they still had water in their lungs. There were a few survivors with no obvious injuries. They were just lying unconscious next to the dead. Looks like the fire ... passed them by." Blake stopped pacing, and gave Weiss a dark look. "That sound enough like magic to you?"

"Either that," Archer's disembodied voice growled in Weiss' ear. "Or an incredibly skilled arsonist gassed a church, removed the victims, set the place on fire, waited for it to die down, and then moved all the bodies back into the church before killing them or putting them into comas. So, yes. Probably magic."

Weiss let out a long sigh before rubbing at her temples. _Wonderful, now I get them_ both _snarking at me._ "The survivors. How badly are they hurt?"

"Comatose. I got close enough to check one of them." Blake paused, trying to find the words. "Almost all their energy is gone. Like it was pulled out of them."

The heiress shuddered again, and this time, it had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

"You know what this is." It was a statement, not a question, and from the tone of Blake's voice, she wasn't in a particularly good mood.

Weiss nodded and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I've heard of a few similar incidents. Some mage grabs a few vagrants, runaways, anyone who won't be missed too soon. Then they kill them and use their life force, their _prana_ , to power whatever spell they're working on. Convert it into mana they can use." She shook her head and tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. "Even for the Grail War, most mages wouldn't dream of trying something like that."

"I'm sure that's a big comfort to the charred bodies back there."

"Blake, an ethical mage would ne-"

"It doesn't matter," the dark-haired woman snapped. "Even if the 'ethical' ones don't stoop that low, the senior mages – the ones who run your academy, your 'Clocktower' – they won't even blink at the body count. All they'll care about is the chance whoever did this might expose you all."

Weiss opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again. This wasn't the time. Even if she knew the Clocktower _would_ send someone to stop this monster. Even if she could cite ten different reasons why the exposure of the magical community was, in fact, a bigger issue than a series of deaths. No matter how tragic they might be. But as much as leaving it alone bothered her, they could debate the issue later. When there wasn't a madman running around setting buildings on fire.

"Whoever this is," Weiss said, choosing her words carefully. Blake already seemed testy enough without her finding a way to make it worse. "They're gathering power. And if it's happening now-"

"They're another Master," Blake finished for her. "Probably trying to feed the extra mana into their Servant. It's too much of a coincidence if they're not."

"... we need to find whoever's doing this."

Blake looked at Weiss then, and gave the heiress a look she couldn't read.

"What?" Weiss asked, very aware of those golden eyes staring at her, her face growing hot.

"Nothing." Blake shook her head. "I wasn't expecting that from you."

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Weiss thought. "Look, if it's a Master doing this, then they're gathering power for the Grail War. We need to stop them. Soon. Before they complete whatever they're trying to do. Because you can bet that anything that needs this much mana won't end well for anyone nearby, including us and half the city."

Blake kept staring at her for a second, then looked away, letting out a short little huff.

"Fine," she growled, starting to pace again. "We still don't have a place to start. There's no trace of whoever did this – no footprints, no video cameras on the buildings nearby-"

"Did you try using _magic_?" Weiss asked, incredulously. Trust an untrained mage to forget the most important part of-

Blake glared over at her. "The first thing I tried was a tracking spell. When I say the place is clean, I mean it's _clean._ "

Weiss' face went red. _Right_. _Of course Blake would try that first. And of course, I had to criticize._

"Fine," she said, her teeth grinding. "Fine. We'll find some other way of catching up to them."

"You know someone with a magical bloodhound?"

"No," Weiss scowled, gathering her coat around her as she started down the footpath back to the city. "But if they're a Master, and they're burning churches, I have a damn good idea where they're headed."


	11. The Last Contractor

"So," Berserker said, stretching her arms as they walked. "You gonna tell us where we're going?"

Weiss glared over her shoulder at the blonde. The Servant was a few steps behind them, leather jacket straining around her shoulders. To say nothing of the shirt that just barely managed to hold in her ...

Weiss shook her head and turned back to Blake. "Why exactly is she following us? It'll cost you less mana to support her if she stays in spiritual form like Archer."

"She-"

"Can't." Berserker said cheerily and shrugged when Blake scowled at her in turn. "What? She's our ally. Plus, it's not like me being physical means I can't protect you."

"Every servant can dematerialize into a spiritual form," Weiss huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "That's the whole point. You wouldn't want a nine-foot tall Heracles or a Pegasus-riding Bellerophon running through downtown Vale."

"Yeah, well, I can't. Dunno what to tell you."

Weiss narrowed her eyes and turned back to the road, muttering something under her breath that sounded very much like "That's not how it's supposed to work."

"Just a thought, but aren't Servants supposed to get summoned with their memories intact?" The blonde said, smirking as she stepped past, ignoring the white-haired mage glaring daggers at her back.

"Since you asked," Weiss snapped, taking faster steps to catch up with the much taller woman. "We're going to see the overseer."

"The what now?"

Weiss sighed and looked imploringly over at the darker mage beside her.

"The overseer. The representative from the Church? The man in charge of watching over the Grail War?" Weiss' eyes went wide when Blake merely shrugged. "How do you not know about this?"

Blake cocked an eyebrow at the shorter girl. "Might surprise you, but as an unregistered mage, I'm not on the mailing list."

Weiss opened her mouth to say something ... then thought better of it. Blake had a point. She couldn't possibly know some of the details of the war, especially since she wasn't one of the three families that built the ritual to begin with. Even if it was her fault for being unregistered; there were damn good reasons why any mage worth their salt was 'encouraged' to join the Association. Good reasons why they'd want to – magical knowledge and training being the most obvious ones. But criticizing Blake for something she didn't know, even if it was painfully basic ... _Well, it won't do me any favors._

"The Holy Grail War has a mediator," Weiss said, trying to keep her voice neutral. The last thing she needed was to sound condescending. "Like a ... referee. For every ritual, the Vatican sends one of their more capable members, to make sure the war doesn't risk exposure to regular people. They also provide shelter for any Masters who lose their Servants.

"Why would the Vatican send someone?"

"Because the mages who designed the ritual called it the 'Holy Grail.' It's not a holy artifact, or even a _physical_ grail, but the Catholics get touchy whenever someone uses the name," Weiss rolled her eyes. "Plus, he's a neutral party. If the overseer was from the Mages' Association, there is no chance he'd be impartial."

Blake nodded and kept walking, looking like she accepted the explanation. They walked for a few more minutes, until Weiss could just make out the point of steeple over the top of the hill. The path meandered its way up and around, doubling back a few times before ending at a wrought-iron gate. Behind the iron bars sat an old, nineteenth-century church. Long ornate windows decorated the front, framing a pair of double doors recessed into the white walls.

"Archer?" Weiss asked.

 _It's clear,_ the Servant replied, her voice ringing quietly in Weiss' ear. _There's someone with him, but no other Servants._

"Alright," Weiss sighed. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Blake watched as Weiss steadied herself, pushed open the double doors and stepped into the darkened church.

It looked like any other church Blake had ever seen. Granted, she wouldn't call herself 'religious' but she'd visited one or two over the years. Add that to the few depictions of a Christian church she'd seen over the years and at least it matched what she _thought_ a church should look like. The late morning light trickled through the windows, casting shadows on the wood-paneled walls. Dark brown carpet ran the length of the hallway, leading to another pair of doors that opened onto the heart of the chapel. A pulpit stood on a raised dais on one end of the room, facing rows of pews, all with prayer books tucked laid out before them. Candles flickered before a statue of the Virgin Mary, lit by worshipers praying for their loved ones.

A man stood at the back of the room, his dark vestments making a long line of black broken only by his white priest's collar. He was tall, with grey hair and spectacles, and leaned on a cane as he spoke with the young woman in front of him.

"And it failed! Failed! Spells like that don't _fail._ I mean, sure, they could backfire or do something you didn't want or knock out the mage trying the spell, but something powered by the Grail shouldn't have had any trouble with calling a Servant!"

"Sometimes," the priest said. Blake swore she could hear the forced patience in his voice. "A summoning happens before a potential Master is able to-"

"Okay, fine," the short woman cut him off. She had ginger hair, with a white blouse over a bright pink skirt, and bounced with every third word. "But then why do I still have the command seals?"

The woman held up her hand, and Blake recognized them immediately. The faded red marks were there, pale and dormant. They were just like the ones Blake hid from her teachers when they appeared on her own skin. The pattern was different – it seemed like each mage's was – but they were definitely command seals. Or at least, the version that appeared when before summoning a Servant.

The priest leaned a little heavier on his cane and sighed. "The pattern surfaces when the Grail decides you're worthy and have a reason to seek it. If someone still manages to summon the Servant before you, there is little I can do."

The young woman looked up at the priest for a second, then let out a long groan of frustration before trudging back down the pews. She stopped as she passed the three of them, glancing from Blake, to Weiss, to the six-foot-two blonde standing behind them.

"Hey," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You guys are Masters, right?"

Weiss just blinked, looked the girl up and down, cocked an eyebrow, then turned without a word and walked up the aisle towards the pulpit.

 _Right. Such a fuzzy ball of compassion,_ Blake thought, staring after her for a second. Sighing, she looked back at the ginger-haired woman and tried to size her up. From what she'd overheard, the girl wasn't actually participating in the ritual. Not yet, anyway. If that was true, then at the worst, she was a potential master. Someone who _could_ have participated if they'd managed to summon a heroic spirit. But if she didn't have a Servant, then she wasn't technically a Master. _Which means she's not really a threat._

"... I am." Blake nodded. There was an aura of magic around the redhead, same as Weiss – if not quite as strong – but she didn't look like what Blake expected from an Association Mage. She was ... _bubbly_. Pleasant, even. It was a far cry from the arrogant self-importance Blake expected. Not to mention the ever-present stick up the ass.

"That's _perfect_!" the woman shouted, rubbing her hands together and grinning widely. "I'm Nora!"

"... Blake."

"Oh, wow! That fits you so well!" Nora grinned and turned to look at the blonde standing behind Blake. The Faunus watched as the ginger's eyes ran up and down the blonde, stopping once they reached the biceps straining against the sleeves of her jacket. "So, this is your Servant, huh? Man, she looks strong. Check out those arms – it looks like she could bench both of us!"

"Um..."

"So, you see Assassin yet? You see who summoned 'em?"

Taken aback by the sudden change in topic, Blake looked up at Berserker, who merely shrugged.

_Well you're no help._

_Hey,_ Berserker's voice chimed in the back of Blake's mind. _You have a Servant to deal with, I'll handle it. Dealing with Masters and deciding what you want to tell them, that's all you._

"We never saw them," Blake said, giving Berserker one last stink eye. "The one time we fought her, she was alone."

The redhead's face fell. "Oh. Well ... thanks anyway. It was still nice meeting you, Blake. Wish you luck!" With that, she turned, waved over her shoulder, and slipped out the door into the hallway.

Shaking her head, Blake started forward down the aisle, catching up to Weiss in time to hear the priest.

"Miss Schnee. It has been too long."

"Ozpin." Weiss nodded curtly. "Something else go wrong already?"

"Just a mix-up. Nothing as chaotic as the last Grail War," he said, sounding tired. Blake didn't blame him. Running herd on a bunch of barely-controlled mages couldn't be an easy task. "I suppose 'something else' means the church burning last night."

"No, I walked here for the incense and the Catholic guilt," Weiss snapped. "Blake, this is Father Ozpin."

Blake nodded a greeting while the Father bowed his head. "And you must be the Master of Berserker," he said softly.

"I am."

"And we don't have a lot of time," the heiress chimed in. "Last night's fire was a cover. Someone, probably one of the other Masters, used it to hide the fact that they drained the life force out of their victims. Apart from being grossly unethical, they're risking exposing the Grail War and-"

"And making a blatant attack on the Church," Father Ozpin finished for her. "Saber's master voiced similar concerns."

Taking a breath, he pointed to the pews nearby before leaning heavily on his cane and settling down into a seat. Weiss stepped around and took a seat that gave her an unobstructed view of the doors, sitting with her back to the pulpit.

"You're right, the arsonist most likely is a Servant or a Master looking to gather more power," the father said, looking at the both over the rim of his glasses. "But without confirmation of which Servant or Master it is, there isn't much I can do."

"... really? That's it?"

"So far, they've managed to mask their attacks fairly well. There isn't enough evidence left behind, and you and I both know the Mage's Association won't step in until whoever this is risks exposure."

"Ozpin, they're not just going after groups of people." Weiss glared over the pews, her mouth a tight, angry line. "None of the temples of shrine in the city have been attacked. Just churches. They're targeting Christians, which makes this a matter for the Church, not the Association."

"You're right, but the Overseer for the Grail War can't interfere unless these actions place the ritual in danger of being discovered. You should know that better than anyone." "As the overseer, there is little I can do yet. As a priest, well, I sent word to the Vatican and called for an investigation, but I doubt they'll respond before the Grail War is finished."

"That's not-"

Father Ozpin cut Weiss off with a grown as he came to his feet, old bones and joints creaking as he pushing himself upright. Slowly, he stepped out of the pew, and made his way to the small bye-altar in the corner of the room. Crossing himself, the father took a match from the box and lit one of the votive candles. He stood in silence, the flickering light playing across his well-lined face and tired eyes.

"Thirty-six, Miss Schnee. Thirty-six people died in that tragedy. Thirty-six lives cut short so that one mage could gather power."

The father turned his head, slow and deliberate, his eyes glancing quickly at Weiss before moving onto Blake. His eyes never left her face, and for the first time since they had entered the church, Blake some something dark gleaming behind those spectacles.

"Too many of these candles have been lit today. I would rather not see any more. Not for this."

The pew creaked as Weiss stood, let out a short, exasperated huff, and started marching down the aisle. Finally, Father Ozpin blinked slowly, and turned back to the votive candles. Quieter than Weiss, Blake rose from her seat and walked silently towards the doors, Berserker right behind her, their longer legs making it easy to catch up with the shorter magus. They were almost to the door before the father spoke again.

"Miss Schnee," he called, the light on his glasses making his face unreadable. "The Vale Community Chapel is planning an evening mass for the victims. I'm sure you would be welcome to pay your respects."

* * *

Weiss waited until they were outside before she started muttering under her breath. Still fuming, she marched back towards the gate, her spine rigid with anger.

"Useless. Completely and totally useless."

"Weiss-"

"And 'nothing he can do,' my ass-"

"Weiss," Blake said firmly, stopping halfway to the gate. "He said he couldn't interfere with the Grail War."

"I know!" Weiss snapped, then closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't know what I was expecting. He's barely left that church in years, and he knows full well anyone the Vatican sends will be two months late and completely incapable of-"

 _You're not listening,_ Archer's voice said in the back of her mind. _She means he said_ he _couldn't interfere._

Weiss stopped, an angry rebuke already on her tongue. She'd had more than enough of Archer's editorializing, and ... and Archer and Blake had a point. She sighed and ran a hand over her face. Father Ozpin was supposed to be a mediator, a neutral party to the ritual. He had some latitude – if one of the Masters risked exposing magic in a way that couldn't be explained away as a mass hallucination or a gas leak, then he had the right to call in the other Masters to eliminate the threat. Even to compel them to assist. But without that kind of provocation ...

Blake cleared her throat. "How much trouble would he be in if he was caught helping one master, or two, against another?"

"... so this gives him plausible deniability." Weiss pushed her bangs out of the way and resisted the urge to smack herself in the face. _And why the hell didn't_ I _notice that?_

"So, he wants us to go to that church," Berserker said. "He probably thinks the Servant will go after the mourners."

The Faunus nodded. "Makes sense. If this Master is using churches as their hunting ground, the service would be a perfect target."

"And as the Overseer, he can't just come out and say it," Weiss finished, and growled under her breath. "You're right. Come on, let's go."

* * *

The Vale Community Church was a much newer building that Father Ospin's. The style was more modern – a low squat building made of a dark stained wood that looked more like a concert hall than a chapel. A large sign sat in the front of the lawn, moveable letters announcing the evening mass to pray for the victims of the two fires. Even with the sign, Blake couldn't tell which kind of church it was. Her best guess was some denomination of Protestantism. Maybe Lutheran? Presbyterian?

Leaning against the seat back, she pulled out her phone and started searching. At least figuring out the difference would keep her busy. _It's not like we have anything else to do._

It had been hours since the three – four, Blake supposed, if they counted Archer – of them settled in the nearby park. An old gazebo in desperate need of a paint job had been set up along the gravel path, probably for small events or musicians. Luckily for them, it gave a perfect view of the church doors. And provided at least some protection against the cold.

It took them a little over an hour to catch a bus and make their way across town to the church – with a short delay to pick up food for Berserker. Turned out being materialized all day made the heroic spirit rather hungry – four-course meal levels of hungry. So, several sandwiches heavier, they managed to make it to the church well ahead the parishioners, giving them ample time to check the grounds. Plenty of time to hunt for any sign of a trap or of the kind of preparation that some sort of soul-sucking ritual would require.

They'd found absolutely nothing. No sigils drawn in the dirt, or sketched on the church walls in chalk, or etched carefully into the stone itself. There was no evidence that a mage had ever even _looked_ at the church, much less planned to harvest its supplicants for energy. Which was why they were now huddled beneath the gazebo roof, coats tugged tightly around them as they watched cars slowly begin to fill up the parking lot.

"Morons," Blake heard Weiss grumble for the fourth time since they settled into their position. "They know someone is burning down churches, so they're gathering to pay their respects ... in a church. Just _brilliant_."

Blake clicked her phone off and looked over at the heiress. The white-haired girl had been touchy since they left Ozpin's, something that had only gotten worse while they waited.

"It's symbolic," she said, watching another family walk through the open doors. "They're making the statement that they can't be scared away. That this kind of violence won't intimidate them."

"I know what they're trying to do, but they could just as easily have the meeting on the church lawn where there's no building to burn down around them. Or ask for a police presence at least."

"I'm gonna take a wild guess that you're not particularly religious," Berserker drawled, lounging back against the wall.

Weiss let out a derisive little laugh, shivered, and clutched her coat even tighter. "I grew up with an absent father figure. Last thing I need is a fictional one."

"Subtle." Blake watched the last car turn off its lights before the driver stood and made his way to the doors. Ducking back down, she checked the spell that kept Adam's blade within reach – she couldn't exactly walk around in public with the thing, but it was always good to make sure she could grab it when something happened. The subspace pocket she stored it in was still ready and waiting for her, and it only took her a second to whisper the words to let her reach inside.

Blake closed her eyes and wrapped her hand around the hilt, feeling the grip against her palm, then let go. Convinced it was there, she pulled her hand away, and whispered the word that would close the pocket again. As much as she wanted it close to hand, carrying a blade near a church when two had already burned to the ground wasn't the best way to stay under the radar. But at least she knew it would be ready when she needed it.

She glanced over at the others, noting the way Berserker sat, perfectly relaxed and lounging back against the wall. She seemed perfectly calm, even sleepy. And yet ... she still had that tension in her muscles, that look like she was ready to attack at a moment's notice. _Well,_ Blake thought. _It's what you'd expect from a pre-modern warrior. If she really was some sort of Viking, then she must have lived waiting for enemy raiders or an attack on her ship. And here I am, checking to make sure my weapon's still where I left it. And Weiss_ ...

Blake looked over as Weiss shivered, her arms wrapped around her sides, practically shaking as she watched the church. The shorter girl was already getting a little blue – some of the color in her cheeks was gone, and from the way she was shaking, the cold had to be getting to her.

"Don't you have some sort of heating spell?"

Weiss looked up and glared over the tops of her arms. "I do. And if I use it, I have less energy for whatever decides to attack this place."

"True, but-"

"I'm fine. I don't need you worrying about me."

Closing her eyes, Blake took a steadying breath and stood. _Just until Rider's gone. Then I don't have to listen to her snipe any more._ Jamming her hands into her pockets, she walked over to the edge of the gazebo before looking back at Weiss. "Well, it's seven-fifty. Let's just head in."

The heiress blinked, then looked back at the abandoned parking lot. "You're sure?"

"Might as well." _And it'll keep you from freezing to death out of pride._

Blake couldn't help but notice that for someone who wasn't _that_ cold, Weiss sure moved quickly. It was barely more than a few seconds before the shorter girl caught up to her.

"Wait. Before we go in, I need to know something. Especially if we're going to fight together." Weiss took a long breath and pushed her gloved hands deeper into her coat. "Berserker ... she _does_ have some sort of Mad Enhancement, right?"

Blake met Weiss' gaze and bit the inside of her cheek. For now, Weiss was an ally. Emphasis on _now._ There was no telling how long this little détente would last. For all Blake knew, as soon as Rider was defeated, there was every chance Weiss would try to stab her in the back. Or more likely, order Archer do it.

Well, maybe not every chance. Weiss had said she disapproved of Jaune interfering with their fight. She seemed to have some fairly strong scruples about fighting fair, even in a ritual where one servant, Assassin, was specifically designed to take out other Masters rather than targeting the other heroes. _But that doesn't mean she won't turn on you_ , a small part of Blake's mind whispered. It was the part that always sounded like her mentor, like Adam correcting a stance or her aim, drilling some new fact about magic or combat into her.

It was a part that had been getting louder of late.

She glanced over at Berserker, trying to see what the blonde thought of Weiss' question. The blonde just shrugged – it seemed she was fine with whatever decision Blake made.

"As far as I can tell, she goes into a rage," Blake said after a moment. She might as well tell her. Weiss would probably figure it out after seeing Berserker in combat for more than a few seconds. "The more she fights, the more she gets hit, the stronger she gets."

"And the stronger her enhancement gets. Hmmm. That might actually be a good thing," Weiss said pensively. "Most Berserkers are barely-controlled thugs. Having one who only gets the boost during combat could be a blessing in disguise."

"Assuming combat lasts long enough for it to activate."

Blake swore she could hear Berserker's grin in her voice. "And assuming the Ice Queen don't freeze to death out here."

"I am not freezing!"

Rolling her eyes, Blake took the steps at the base of the church two-at a time, getting to the entryway before the others could catch up. Ready to get in and hopefully be done with this, she reached out and wrapped her hand around the door handle.

She froze the second her hand touched the wood. The moment she did, her skin started to crawl, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Blake took her hand away and was on the third word of the spell to retrieve her sword before she stopped herself.

"Something wrong?" Weiss asked behind her.

"Not sure." Shaking her hand, Blake tried to forget the feeling she'd had touching the handle. "Anything about this feel ... 'off' to you?"

"We're hunting for an unknown Master who is sucking the life out of people to feed their Servant. And by 'we' I mean myself and a classmate who I didn't even know was a mage until a few days ago, who also happens to be a participant in an age-old ritual that will, eventually, force us to fight each other," Weiss finished with a sigh and stepped up to stand beside Blake. "Yes, it feels odd."

"I meant about the church."

"I know. Look, if anyone asks, we were friends of one of the victims."

"Which one?"

"No idea," Weiss shrugged and reach for the handle. "They should have a list in there, so just pick one-"

Weiss pushed mid-sentence, and the door swung open. Whatever Blake had felt touching the door was nothing compared to this – it felt like cold air rushing out an opened door, if that air was made of muck and worms squirming along her skin. She felt cold, colder than the winter air outside, the sheer malevolence of the gloom inside the church chilling her to the bone.

Gritting her teeth, Blake forced herself inside, and nearly stepped on the body lying the foyer. Her eyes went wide as she stared around the church, horror gripping her chest. The pews were filled with still, lifeless bodies, slumped forward in their seats. A priest in a dark suit had collapsed on the steps to the pulpit, lying limply across the carpeted stairs. Whole families lay together, children falling forward onto the floor as they passed out, followed by their parents. The lights were still on, but the whole room felt ... dim – as if the light itself was being snuffed out.

"Shit," Weiss swore, running over to the nearest body. It took her less than a second to pull back the man's head and put her fingers against his neck. After a second, she met Blake's eyes, and nodded. Swallowing, Blake did the same, checking the nearest teenager, a girl with her head lolled back against the seat. There was a pulse, a faint one, but she could still feel it with her fingers.

 _We're too late,_ she thought, as the magic in the room began to pull at her again. The feeling came back – that sense of falling, sinking, of stubby, malformed fingers pulling her-

Pain. For a split second, all Blake felt was pain, and the sinking stopped. She looked down and found Weiss tugging on her arm, hard. The shorter girl's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her face pale as she said ... she was saying something ...

"... on. Blake, come on. If we hurry, we can probably stop the spell before whoever this is starts killing people."

"R-right." Blake shook her head and forced herself to start moving. She had to focus. Whatever this spell was, it was affecting her mind. Biting the inside of her cheek, Blake felt the short burst of pain spread through her mouth, pushing the slimy squirming feeling back a little more. _There. Focus on the pain._

Her legs felt like they were encased in mud. Growling under her breath, Blake _pushed_ and forced herself forward, grabbing the teenaged girl's arm and hauling her bodily onto her shoulders. A hand grabbed her other arm, and she looked up to find Berserker standing there, two full-grown men slung over each shoulder. Weiss was on the blonde's other side, muttering under her breath and half-dragging one of the other women from the congregation. Archer – _when did she materialize? –_ was already moving towards the door, a man under one arm, her sword in the other.

The doors to the church flew wide, crashing into the walls behind them. Without waiting, Blake dove behind one of the pews, already reaching for her sword. She laid the girl down and crouched, holding onto the adrenaline to keep the magic at bay, searching over the top of the bench for whoever had cast this monstrous ritual.

A short girl, with a close bob of orange hair and freckles speckled across her nose, stood in the doorway. Blake could see the aura of magic around her hands, but she wasn't the one what caught her attention. It was the knight at her side, dressed in full plate armor and holding a massive longsword at the ready.

For a split second, the six of them just stared at one another – Blake, Archer, Berserker, and Weiss crouched by the bodies in the pews, the knight and the girl in the doorway, lit from behind by the streetlamps.

Then the girl pointed at the four of them and spoke in a high-pitched, almost chipper voice. "Saber! Don't let 'em get away!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dramatis Personae**
> 
> **The 5th Grail War [Master - Summon / Identity (RWBY character)] ******
> 
> Weiss Schnee                    –           Archer / Identity Unknown (Raven)
> 
> Blake Belladonna               –          Berserker / Kara, Yang Xiao Long (Yang)
> 
> Jaune Arc/ Winter Schnee  –          Rider / Achillea (Pyrrha)
> 
> Penny Polendina Einzbern  –          Saber / Identity Unknown (???)
> 
> Glynda Goodwitch             –          Lancer / Sun Wukong (Sun)
> 
> Nora Valkyrie                    –          Assassin (True / Identity Unknown (???)
> 
> Peter Port (dead)               –          Caster / Identity Unknown (Cinder)
> 
> Roman Torchwick             –          Caster / Identity Unknown (Cinder)
> 
> Caster                              –          Assassin (False) / Identity Unknown (Neo)
> 
> Well, there's Saber and his master. If you'd like the speculate about who the master might be or the servants' identities (and if you get it right I will actually tell you) please feel free to leave a review. Or if you just want to say you liked or didn't like it. Or leave constructive criticism. Or even just to say hi. Really, I enjoy reading anything anyone leaves.


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